The Doctor and His Assistant
by Dawn's Edge
Summary: My first crack at an Outlast fanfic (or any fanfic for that matter). This is sort of an AU, set before the events of the game. This story is about our favorite mad doctor and his reluctant assistant as they go about day-to-day business in an asylum filled with blood-thirsty inmates, crazy religious fanatics, and lots of dead bodies and gore.
1. Reluctant Assistant, Mad Doctor

**_Mount Massive Asylum and one of its insane residents, Doctor Richard Trager, is from the horror game 'Outlast' which is owned by Red Barrels. The only character that I own is Simon. Enjoy!_**

* * *

Simon exited the rickety old elevator, clipboard held tightly in his left hand. His other hand, which was a gnarled patchwork of burnt tissue, was clenched into a tight fist at his side. Shouts and raspy incoherent voices could be heard from somewhere in the distance, and occasionally, an agonizing scream. All of this noise faded into the background for Simon, whose mind was focused on the daunting task at hand. Trager might not take kindly to another one of his "patients" dying on his watch. Or, maybe he would. The mad "doctor" was extremely unpredictable, and was getting worse as of late. One minute, he'd be brutally butchering a screaming man alive with a meat cleaver, and the next, he'd be patting their head and cooing to them, and giving them his condolences. In the end, though, it never went well for the patients. Heaving a thoughtful sigh, Simon continued on.

Reaching a metal doorway, he took a left. Chains clinked as a man strapped to a hospital gurney lifted his head to see who had entered the hallway. He looked at Simon with wide, glazed over eyes and began whimpering. Simon did not regard the man as he made his way past and opened one of the double-doors on his right. The room he entered was black and white tiled, and was in as much disarray as the rest of the wing. Tattered and torn metal-spring beds lined the walls of the room. Most of the beds were empty; blood stains fresh and old were the only indicators of them having been recently used.

"_You!_" came a raspy voice from the other end of the room. Ah yes, Mr. Langen, one of the asylum's executives. _Ex_-executive, Simon corrected himself. He chose to ignore this man too, who was now yelling expletives at him, and made his way to a small adjoining hallway, stopping in front of a paint-chipped wooden door. His arm faltered as he reached for the doorknob with his mangled hand. Gathering up his courage, he took a deep breath, then twisted the rusted knob and walked into the room.

The room he entered looked oddly similar to the bathroom from _Saw_. In fact it was a bathroom, or rather, it used to be. It had been recently converted into a makeshift surgical room. A lone flickering light illuminated the room to show cracked and dirty white bricked walls and cracked white tile flooring spattered here and there with gross amounts of blood and some suspicious muddy-colored liquid. Old pipes jutted from the ceiling and walls. Water could be heard dripping from somewhere within the small room. The wall opposite the doorway had three urinals, some of which were currently being used as storage space for various surgical tools. The bathroom's lone stall and toilet had been removed to make room for a large metal cart which held even more tools: several scalpels, two bone saws, a nightstick from one of the guards, some large kitchen knives, and a rather large pair of bone shears. All were covered in a dark, rusty brown substance. A wheelchair equipped with wrist and ankle restraints sat in a dark corner.

Simon gulped, looking around the uninhabited room. He purposely averted his gaze from the mirror hanging above the sinks to his left. Ever since he was a child, Simon had avoided anything that he could possibly see his reflection in. He hated seeing himself; despised the way he looked. How _weak_ he was. Viewing his reflection only brought pain and anger as he was reminded of his awful childhood, and the monster who had stolen it away from him. He shook his head, as if to push the dark thoughts that were burning into his mind away, and turned to leave.

"_BOO!_"

Simon jerked back with a startled yelp, bringing his clipboard up over his face like a shield. Then suddenly, he heard chuckling. He lowered the clipboard to see none other than Richard Trager himself. He was leaning nonchalantly, with arms crossed, against the wooden door frame. His dark eyes were staring at Simon from behind his cracked spectacles.

Despite the friendly chuckle coming from behind the tattered surgical mask, everything else about Trager was definitely _not _friendly. The man in the doorway stood barefoot, wearing a bloodstained butcher's apron tied around his skeleton-thin waist by a bloody piece of rope. He wore no shirt, leaving his scarred and bony torso exposed. There was some odd contraption, with tubing winding around his arm that Simon hadn't noticed before. He didn't have time to observe the strange device further as Trager stepped into the small room.

"Heh-heh. Gotcha good, buddy!" the mad doctor laughed."Like the new threads? All the doctors are wearin' them," he joked, motioning to his apron as he strode past Simon over to the metal cart.

"Y-yes. Very, um, stylish, sir." Simon looked to his clipboard, stalling as he thought about how to continue. Well, he certainly looked like a doctor, thought Simon. A doctor straight out of a cheap horror film. But he didn't understand why he chose to discard his old shirt, tattered and blood-stained as it had been. At least it had covered, for the most part, his skeletal-like chest and arms. Whatever tortures the amateur doctor had been subjected to, it must have hurt like hell.

_Shiiiink. Shiiiink. _Simon looked up from his clipboard to see Trager sharpening two large knives together, their blades reflecting the light from overhead.

"So—" _s__hiiiink_, "—what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be down checking on the crazi—uh—I mean, patients?" he asked, still sharpening the knives. Simon looked back to his clipboard.

"Well, uh, Mr. Trager, it seems that . . ." The sharpening of the knives stopped immediately, causing Simon to trail off and look up from his clipboard. Trager's head was now turned so that he was glaring at Simon with his penetrating, dark gaze. The doctor let out an exasperated sigh.

"Simon, how many times are we gonna go over this?" he asked quietly with a hint of anger in his voice that Simon knew all too well.

Suddenly, Trager threw one of the knives down on the cart with a loud _clank_ and shot over to Simon in a flash. He was now pointing the second knife at Simon, dangerously close to his throat. "_Doctor_, Simon! It's _doctor_! Doc-tor!" he screamed, emphasizing the word. Simon's blood seemed to freeze as he stared wide-eyed at the knife the crazed man was holding mere centimeters from his pulsing neck.

"How hard is it to fucking . . ?" Trager had become so irate that he was sputtering his words now. "Show. Some. Respect! I mean, come—!"

"I'm sorry! I d-didn't mean any offense," Simon stammered, cutting the mad physician's tirade short. He struggled not to look away from the madman's rage-filled eyes. Trager still held the knife to Simon's throat, and was breathing heavily from behind his mask. At least he had stopped screaming at him. Maybe that was a good sign? He looked like he was calming down . . .

_ SLAP!_

Simon reeled to his right, clutching tightly to his clipboard as he fell against the wall next to the door. He brought his injured hand to his face gingerly. He—had he just been _slapped_?

Trager had gone back to fiddling with the various tools laid out on the cart, his back to Simon's hunched form. "Serves you right, you little miscreant," he muttered, still fuming. "What have you got to say for yourself, mister?" he said over his shoulder.

Simon shakily brought himself up to a standing position and looked over to Trager who . . . was not wearing any pants.

What . . ?

His mind was reeling; from the attack and from the unsavory view of his boss' backside. He snapped out of his reverie when the man he was staring at shifted to turn towards him. What? Why was he looking at—oh! Right.

"I'm so, s-so sorry," Simon stuttered out. As a painful afterthought, he added, "Doctor Trager."

Trager nodded in approval and went back to absentmindedly fiddling with the tools again. "Don't let it happen again, unless you want _both_ of your hands to match," he hissed, emphasizing the _ch_ in 'match'. Simon visibly twitched and felt a painful throb in his malformed hand. He had not forgotten what had caused its deformation. All Simon could do in response was to vigorously nod his head.

Several very silent moments passed, save for the clinking and sharpening of the tools on the cart. Did those meat cleavers really _need _to be that sharp? The silence was finally interrupted by Simon, who was tired of the awkward stillness in the room.

"Ahem, sir? I came here to report something. Pa—"

"Oh yes, I already knew," interrupted Trager, turning around to face Simon. "People cannot live without both kidneys. I was on the fence about it before, but now I'm certain," he stated matter-of-factly.

"I . . . hadn't known that sir, but—"

"Well then what the devil is it?" demanded the impatient doctor, turning to face his assistant.

"Sir, Patient 109 didn't make it," Simon blurted out. He watched the mad doctor warily, wondering if he would be able to make it out the door lest the doctor come at him with the knife again. Once again, he felt a dull ache in his mangled hand at the memory of the last time he had displeased the doctor.

"_What?!_" Trager shouted, suddenly very livid, and clutched strands of his long grey hair on either side of his head. "That's . . . fantastic news!"

Simon flinched at his sudden outburst. ". . . Excuse me sir?"

"You seriously need to do something about those ears of yours, buddy. Patient 109 you say? He was the fella who had to get his feet, left hand, right arm, ears, tongue, and liver removed. Correct me if I'm wrong." Simon checked the clipboard, and shook his head.

"No, that's the one, sir. How is his death considered 'fantastic news'?" questioned Simon.

"Because, Simon my boy, I made a bet with that big Ivan guy. You know . . . six-foot five, looks like a retarded, hairless gorilla. Very, very dense." At this he let out a low chuckle. "He told me that 109 could hold out for a week. I told him he wouldn't last more than four days! So now, I get fifty bucks! Ha! The moron thought I wouldn't be able to tell the death-date of my own patient? What a schmuck!" cackled Trager, who grabbed Simon by the shoulders and shook him playfully.

"But sir, we're in an asylum . . ." explained Simon, backing out of the doctor's hold. Trager eyed him questioningly, placing his bony hands on his narrow hips.

"And your point?" asked Trager.

"How can he possibly give you money?"

"_Pfft_, well Simon, the answer is simple. He . . . hmm. Well, he can just—wait. No . . ." He paused, rubbing his chin in deep thought. Simon wondered what was going through the mad doctor's mind in that moment. It mustn't have been good, for Trager emitted a low, animalistic growl and brought his long, bony fingers in front of his face as if he were trying to strangle the air.

"That fucking trickster! _Bamboozler_!" He lashed out, flipping over the cart and sending its contents clattering against the floor. Simon brought the clipboard up to his face, peeking over the top. He watched on in terror and awe as his boss stomped around the room, making random angry motions with his arms as he spewed out vulgarities.

"How dare he! _SONUVA—__!_"


	2. Getting Information

**Thank you so much for the reviews. It really helps me out, telling me what I'm doing right and/or what I could be doing to make this story more enjoyable. This is **_**my**_** story as much as it is my readers', and I want us **_**both**_** to be happy with the outcome!**

_** I do not own Mount Massive Asylum or Doctor Trager. They belong to Red Barrels. I do, however, own Simon Poleski. Enjoy!**_

* * *

The two men made their way down the hallway; the only sound, the creaking wheels of the cart on the rough wood floor. Simon trotted ahead of the doctor and pressed the button for the elevator. The doors slid open and Trager pushed the cart in, running over two of Simon's toes in the process. After hobbling into the elevator, Simon pressed the button for the 3rd Floor and the doors slid closed. It took a few seconds for the old elevator to begin its decent. It was slow going, and Simon became even more uncomfortable with each passing second. He extremely aware of how close he was to one of the most deadly men in the entire asylum.

_Ding._

Phew. Simon absent-mindedly wiped a bead of sweat from his brow as the rusty elevator doors creaked open. They had made it to the third floor of the Male Ward where the doctor kept the bulk of his "patients."

"Ladies first," mocked Trager. Simon exhaled silently and stepped out of the elevator. The doctor followed behind with the cart. There were several doorways that led to rooms much like the one connected to Doctor Trager's "surgical" room. Simon stopped at one of the doors on his right and held it open for the doctor. Simon stared at an interesting crack in the paint, keeping his gaze locked on that and not on his boss's backside as he entered the room. Once it was safe to look away, he entered in after him in and shut the door.

Simon's stomach seemed to drop, as it did many times when he caught sight of the malnourished, deformed men. He had long since gotten used to the copper tang of blood and the putrid, bitter aromas of human excrement, but he could never get used to the visual imagery that accompanied the smells. The room itself was dimly lit (like a majority of the asylum) and packed with beds and gurneys that held the patients. The luckier ones had just been fastened down to their gurneys, while the more unfortunate ones were hooked up to contraptions befitting the Spanish Inquisition.

The patients were a good deal more quiet than they had been fifteen minutes ago when Simon had come to "take stock", as the doctor liked to call it. Upon seeing Trager and his assistant, many had quieted their shouts and whimpers, although several continued to struggle against their bindings and cry out. Others just lay there, motionless.

_I could have been one of them_, thought Simon, suppressing a shudder.

The two walked down the aisle making their way to Patient 109. Trager stopped next to a struggling man in one of the first beds and spoke something quietly to him. Simon continued walking, but caught the words ". . . or I'll remove the _other_ one." The patient silenced his cries, and Simon cringed. He really did not want to know what organ the doctor was referring to.

From somewhere in the crowded room one man called out, "The Angel of Death! Don't let him get me! Please . . . don't take me yet! I ain't ready to die!"

Several other men began whimpering; some were openly sobbing. Simon felt their pain, he really did, but there was simply nothing he could do for them. He tried not to look at any one of them directly. They were all disfigured beyond what seemed humanly possible. After several weeks in the doctor's care, there was no man in the room that was complete. Dr. Trager had a sick habit for collecting body parts in some grand delusion that he would make a fortune selling them on the Black Market.

"Okay," said Trager. He stood from his bent position next to the man he had spoken to and clapped his hands together. "I'm here on official business. Which one of you poor saps knows where Ivan is?" His question received no response.

"Really? Not even _one_ person knows where he is?"

Silence.

Trager sighed in frustration before continuing. "Six-foot five-ish, two-hundred fifty pounds of muscle? Goes around disemboweling people for fun? No one?" Well, in the patients' defense, that last trait could have applied to nearly anyone. The doctor was becoming irritated. Simon, seeing the danger, hurried over to his side.

"Sir, maybe you should make a deal with them," he offered, looking at the frightened patients.

"A deal?" inquired Trager, casting a sidelong glance at his assistant.

"Yes sir, something they would want in return for their information," Simon explained. Trager rubbed his masked chin in thought.

"Hmm. Yes . . . a deal. You know, you are absolutely right, Mr. Poleski," he said, perking up. "I think I know just what these poor, unfortunate souls want." He turned to face the room's occupants. With his attention now directed to the patients, he spoke in a louder tone.

"Okay, listen up 'cause I'm in a sour mood, and I am _not_ going to repeat myself! I'm going to cut—" Several of the patients gasped. "—one of you lucky sons of bitches a deal." Sighs of relief filled the room. Trager clasped his hands behind his back, amused by the effect his words had on his pets. There was a dramatic pause, and Simon wanted to roll his eyes at his boss's unnecessary theatrics. The doctor brought up his right hand and placed it over his chest.

"Whoever tells me where Ivan is first will receive an early discharge from my care." Upon his proposition, the room erupted in shouts and incoherent mumbling. The doctor's eyes darted around the room, trying to catch any sort of legible answer. "Quiet!" he shouted. "One at a time, one at a time!"

"He's in the Pit! The Pit! Please, just let me outta here!" came a raspy cry. Trager's spectacled eyes traced the room, like a predator looking for its prey.

"Who spoke?" he demanded.

"I-I did! Me!" a man in the third gurney on the right shouted anxiously. Everyone that was still conscious was looking at the man now with wide eyes. Trager walked towards him, making the patient's lone eye widen, and his body tremble against his bindings. The mad doctor stopped next to the trapped man and crouched down to his level.

"What'd you say there, buddy?" he asked, putting his hand to his ear and leaning closer. "I didn't quite catch that." His voice was unusually soft and welcoming, which only seemed to frighten the patient further.

"I . . . I said—" the man's scarred lips were quivering as he attempted to speak. "The P-Pit, doctor. That's where I last heard of 'im, I swear! It's like 'is personal playground down there."

The doctor stared silently at the man in the bed, gauging whether or not he was trustworthy enough to believe. Apparently satisfied, he reached his scarred and bony hand towards the patient's head, causing the patient to flinch away violently.

"Shh, now. Don't be such a little pansy," Trager scolded the patient as he patted the man's bandaged head like an owner would his dog. The doctor removed his hand and stood back up, turning to Simon. "My shears," he ordered. Simon immediately grabbed the large rusty bone shears from the cart and handed them to the doctor, who then hooked them onto his apron and started stalking to the doorway, motioning for Simon to follow.

"W-Wait! Where are you going? You said you'd let me leave!" rasped the patient from behind. Trager turned to him.

"Yes . . . I did, didn't I?" he replied coolly.

The patient began to shake and whimper. Not one to pass up an opportunity to scare the shit out of his patients, Trager walked towards the distraught man, opening and closing the bone shears as he did so. "No! PLEASE!" shrieked the man. "Please let me go! I don't wanna be here! I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna be here! I-I wanna get OUT!" He was struggling against the leather straps holding him to the gurney, causing the whole thing to shake while he lashed out. Although his mask completely covered his mouth, Simon could almost _feel_ Trager smiling darkly beneath it. The mad doctor placed his left hand over the patient's scarred lips and pressed the man's head back into the mattress. He brought the shears up in front of the man's face as he leaned in closer. In that moment, the only sound in the room was the muffled whimpering of Trager's victim. Simon brought his clipboard up to his chest and clutched it with both his hands. He had almost forgotten how to breathe.

The doctor spoke in a hushed, barely audible tone. "Once I'm finished with my doctorly business, I will come back and _release_ _you_. Just as I promised." There was a very uncomfortable pause before the doctor continued. "And since you are just _so impatient_, that shows me how much of a fucking ingrate you are," he growled into the man's face. Had Trager's hand not been clamped down over the man's mouth, Simon was sure his screams would have been heard all the way to the asylum's basement. No wonder this man—this sadistic _maniac_—had half of Mount Massive in a cold sweat at the mere mention of him.

"Ooh, I know just what this situation calls for," perked the doctor. "What's that old saying? 'Spare the rod and spoil the child'? Well, do not fret, good sir. Despite your previous display of shit-headedness, I will be most merciful." Trager's grotesquely long fingernails were digging into the man's face as he spoke, his voice becoming more taunting and dark.

"I, your humble and just doctor, have forgiven you. When I return, we will have a little, ah, _Going Away _party, for your early release. I am sure all of your comrades would love to celebrate in your good fortune." The doctor lifted his head to face the petrified patients. "How's that sound, boys? A fucking party!" His malicious laughter resonated through the entire room. "Oh—" he said, looking back down at the frightened man on the bed, "—and I'll make sure the party doesn't end too soon. Premature endings are such a _drag_." With another dark chuckle, Trager removed his hand from the patient's mouth and gave him a pat on his cheek before turning and heading to the door. The paitent began to sob as Simon hesitantly followed suit, shutting the door behind him before following his boss into the elevator.

"But sir," spoke Simon. "What about 109? Isn't he the reason why we came here?"

"You need to get your priorities straight, Mr. Poleski," the doctor scolded his assistant. "I think fifty bucks is a tad more important than an already deceased patient. I mean, he's _already_ dead, what else can we do?" Trager reasoned as he pressed the button for the 2nd Floor with his bony index finger. As the doors slowly began to close, Simon was able to catch the sorrowful cries of the sobbing man. This last visit would most likely be the last time he'd ever see the man again.

Well, at least _alive_.


	3. The Confrontation

**I really hope people aren't using this story as some sort of guide for navigating Mount Massive Asylum. I have completely changed up locations from the game. (The asylum's setup is confusing, yo!) So, just suspend your belief and ignore any inconsistencies with the game. **

_** I do not own Mount Massive Asylum or Doctor Trager. They belong to Red Barrels. I do, however, own Simon Poleski, Ivan, and Watcher. Enjoy!**_

* * *

Within fifteen minutes, the two men arrived at the Prison Ward. Prison Block D, nicknamed "the Pit", was a very large containment area—the largest of the Prison Blocks in Mount Massive Asylum. The room consisted of three floors of nothing but holding cells. Columns of them lined the perimeter of the room, and the only way to access the upper cells was to take the elevator or stairs to the asylum's third and fourth floors. Apparently, some inmates found this task too tedious, for now there were beds stacked up to allow someone to climb up to the next floor. Concrete catwalks also lined the perimeter of the room to allow orderlies to cart in wheelchairs and supplies to the inmates. In the middle of the room was a wide open area with cement flooring, which was now littered with the gory remains of guards and inmates. This is where most of the public fights took place; the Pit served as an arena of sorts, and its inhabitants were the spectators. Few of the cells were empty, and those that still held their captives were left locked, for those held the more dangerous inmates. Some willingly remained locked up for their own personal comfort and protection. Others just hid under their cots for fear of what await them outside their cell doors.

Doctor Trager and Simon made their way over to Cell 247. If anyone had any questions involving the whereabouts of another patient, or wanted any information in general, they went to this cell to speak to a man who went by the alias "Watcher."

Watcher was currently pressed against his cell door, hands gripping the metal bars, and smiling cynically as the two figures approached.

"Well well, if it isn't the great Doctor Trager. Or is it 'Doctor Death'? You go by many different titles nowadays, _Rick_," smirked the red-haired man from behind the cell door.

"Yes, and they all begin with 'doctor', so I'd appreciate it if you would kindly refer to me as such," countered Trager. The doctor looked down and checked his invisible wristwatch and sighed, "Spare the pleasantries, Watcher. I and my assistant are here on important business."

Watcher pressed his face closer to the bars and raised an eyebrow. "Ooh, do tell? No, wait! On second thought,_ don't_. You're lookin' for a shakedown, I assume? Am I correct? Ooh, please tell me I got it right. It'd be a great disappointment if I didn't live up to my reputation for being M.M.'s most notorious informant."

Trager scoffed, but otherwise did not respond. Watcher took his eyes off of the doctor and directed his attention to the small nervous-looking man standing behind him.

"Oh, looky who it is. _Simple Simon_. I see you're still shadowing this lunatic, eh? Must be nice not having to worry about people screwing with ya. Being the doc's little lapdog and all," mocked Watcher, grinning. Trager rolled his eyes and slipped the tip of his shears between the bars of Watcher's cell, poking the man's chest.

"Just tell me where the hell he is and we'll be on our merry way," Trager said darkly. His patience was wearing thin, and he was not in the mood for any of the little weasel's games.

Watcher looked down at his chest, but didn't back away from the bars. "Ah, where _who _is, exactly? I'm sure there are lots of guys on your to-do list," said Watcher.

"You're Mount Massive's 'most notorious informant.' You tell me. Or are you not as good at your job as you claim you are . . ?" Trager jabbed, smirking from behind his surgeon's mask. He could see the red-headed man's fingers snake around the bars tighter. Questioning Watcher's capabilities was one sure-fire way to provoke the man, and Trager was taking full advantage of it.

Watcher pressed his face against the bars, not minding that by doing so he was also pressing into the tips of Trager's shears. "Don't patronize me, Trager! I assure you my _skills_ are not in question!" he hissed. After inhaling and exhaling, he moved away from the bars. "You're looking for that big guy. Ivan," he said more calmly. "The lummox was yapping about you a few days ago. Something about a bet." Watcher looked at Trager, waiting for the doctor to approve of his answer.

The doctor was still put-off over the man's arrogance and just stood there, staring amusedly at the red-haired man. Another way to get a rise from Watcher was to completely disregard him. From what Trager could tell from the man's face and body language, it was working.

"Aw, c'mon Trager, you're no fun," whined Watcher, his lips forming an exaggerated frown.

"Tut. Funny you should say that. I'm actually throwing a little party back at my place when my business here is over with. And _no_, you weren't invited," Trager hisssed teasingly.

Watcher raised a bemused eyebrow and his eyes shifted to Simon's placid features, then back to the doctor.

"Hmm, that's fine by me. Your 'parties' tend to get a little too messy for my tastes. I get enough blood n' guts where I'm at now." Watcher shrugged nonchalantly, even as the tips of the bone shears pressed deeper into his chest.

"Enough small talk, and yes, you were right in your assumption. I'm looking for Ivan. See him around?" asked Trager.

Watcher sneered, ecstatic that he was correct. He was always correct. In his mind, he could never be wrong. "You're seriously wasting your time with that psycho? Heh, can't believe that lug-head managed to tear you away from your 'work.'"

The doctor only continued to glower at him impatiently. Watcher let out a bored sigh.

"He's in the locker room, over there," he said, nodding to his right. "Found some food. You might not wanna disturb him—he takes his meals seriously, you know?" Watcher said with a slanted smile.

Trager smirked, and removed the shears from between the bars and headed towards the locker room with Simon following closely behind. As Simon passed by, Watcher whistled and did his best immitation of a panting dog. Simon narrowed his eyes, but ignored the immature taunt.

"Ey, Trager!" Watcher called from behind the bars of his cell door.

Both men stopped and turned back.

"We should really chat more often. I could use a lil' civilized interaction. Of course, when the missus isn't around..."

Trager disregarded his comment and continued on. Simon gave Watcher a death glare, much to the amusement of the caged informant, and went back to following his boss.

The doctor led them through a wrought-iron door and down a hallway. A sign on the wall read **Locker Room**, with an arrow pointing right. As they neared the locker room, grunts and heavy breathing could be heard. Simon stilled, not wanting to go any further. Why did he have to accompany Trager? This was _his _fight, after all. With each step towards the locker room, Simon grew more and more uneasy, which was quite a feat. Simon was always uneasy in this god-awful place.

Suddenly, a bony hand gripped his shoulder and pushed him forward.

"You're the assistant. _Assist_ me in surveying the area," snapped the doctor, pointing with his shears to the door in front of them.

Simon gulped and stupidly did as he was instructed. He slowly stepped through the threshold and peered into the dimly lit locker room. A set of grey lockers obscured his vision, but he could tell that someone was definitely in there; the grunts and animalistic snarls had grown louder. Simon stood stone-still, torn between running and facing his boss's wrath, and stepping further into the room. His decision was made for him as a foot shoved into his back, propelling him into the room.

_Son of a_—_!_

". . . the fuck are you?" came a croaky voice. Simon quickly turned in the direction of the voice, and all but died as he stared at the monstrous sight before him. A rather large man was crouched over a body in the corner, holding a broken and bloodied mirror shard in his right hand. He was breathing hard as he glared over his shoulder at Simon.

"Uh, I'm‒um . . . Doctor T-Trager's assistant?" Simon said, his voice now an octave higher.

The crouched man's shoulders raised and lowered as he snarled. The man, Ivan, stood, towering well over six feet and spoke in a husky, guttural voice. "Can't you see I'm busy? Get out of here, _NOW!_" he roared at Simon.

_With pleasure! _thought Simon, who immediately made a dash for the door, only to be stopped by the lethal end of rusty shears. Simon back-pedaled back into the room as the doctor walked forward.

"Oh no, we're not leaving, _bud_. Not until you pay up from our little wager," Trager sneered.

Ivan eyed the newcomer. "I ain't payin' shit for nobody. Now get the fuck outta here before I make a mess of ya!" threatened the big man. He approached the doctor and was now towering a good foot over him. Simon was grateful that he was no longer the main focus of the man's wrath.

"I'm getting pretty hungry . . . That last guy didn't fill me up. But I think I have enough of an appetite for your little boyfriend here," said the giant, pushing past Trager and walking over to Simon.

_Aw damnit!_ Now that he was once again the target, Simon began to back away from the gargantuan coming for him. Ivan was growling at him through a set of gnarled pointed teeth. _Like a shark_, Simon observed despairingly. He had been backing away so fast that the back of his head smacked against the cement wall behind him. He had allowed himself to be cornered.

Ivan brought the mirror shard up to his mouth and began picking at his grotesque, pointed teeth. He was looking down at the trembling man in front of him with hungry, lust-filled eyes. It was always fun playing with his meals before chopping them up and devouring their entrails.

"I'm gonna enjoy tearing you apart, little man," he growled at Simon.

Simon was in a cold sweat now and breathing heavily. He looked like he was about to pass out, and he probably would have, had he not caught sight of his reflection in the mirror shard Ivan was currently using as a toothpick. Simon's terrified expression morphed into an expression of harsh scrutiny. His wide eyes narrowed at the object in Ivan's hand and his heart pounded loudly in his ears, not from fear, but from the insurmountable anger manifesting inside of him. Ivan noticed the drastic change and quit picking his teeth and narrowed his beady eyes.

"What's this? You gettin' angry, little man? That's fucking cute!" Ivan chortled. "Real good time to grow a pair, _worm_." Ivan snorted and added, "No . . . It wouldn't be fair for a worm to be compared to something as pitiful as the disgusting piece of filth cowering before me." Ivan's foul hot breath battered Simon's twisted face, making the smaller man even more irate.

Simon's fists were clenched at his sides and his teeth were grit. "Shut . . . the_ fuck _. . . _**up**_," growled Simon, in a voice of authority surprising even him.

Ivan poked a thick finger at the smaller man's chest. "You gonna make me, you little piece of shit? I'd like to see _that!_"

Trager was watching the two with mild interest. He had never seen the timid man behave in this manner; it was all very surreal. But, his patience was wearing thin. Normally, he would jump at any chance to degrade his assistant, but not when matters as important as fifty bucks were on the line. Ivan was going to bleed for making him the fool. He started to walk over, bringing the scissors up threateningly.

"Okay girls, I've had just about en—"

With a furious shout, Simon pile-drived into Ivan's massive stomach, catching the big man off guard and sending them both to the floor. Ivan lost his grip on the mirror shard and it was sent clattering to the ground next to them. Simon was shrieking furiously at the man underneath him as he wrapped his shaking hands around Ivan's wide neck in an attempt to throttle the life out of him. Ivan was still winded from the heavy shot to his diaphragm and the blow to the back of his head.

From his perch atop Ivan, Simon caught the gleam of the mirror shard not one foot away. Seeing an opportunity, Simon snatched the shard up in his left hand and raised his arm, preparing to bury it into Ivan's neck.

Ivan, seeing what the small man was planning to do, brought his meaty arm up, causing Simon to instead sink the shard deep into Ivan's muscled right shoulder. The big man cried out and shoved the still-screaming Simon off of him and scrambled to his feet. Grunting, he tore the shard from his flesh before running at the fallen Simon, delivering a crushing blow to the downed man's ribs. The blow had completely knocked the breath out of Simon's body and he collapsed to the ground, his blind fury replaced with nothing but anguish. The gargantuan delivered another kick, and Simon cried out as he heard his ribs crack under the pressure.

Ivan bent and gripped Simon roughly by his neck, pulling him completely off of the floor. Simon hissed as he felt his ribs shift painfully from underneath his flesh. The back of his head collided with metal as Ivan shoved him into a set of lockers. Simon felt himself being tugged roughly forward and slammed back against the lockers again.

At this point, Simon was everything but unconscious; his vision was fading and his whole being was screaming in agonizing pain. He was done. There was no way he would get out of this. Damn this infernal beast, who was still holding him up by his neck in a vice-like grip. _Damn that Trager for causing him to be in this situation_. The environment around him was disintegrating, and the only thing he heard was the muffled growls coming from the beast who was stealing the life from his battered body. Simon didn't even notice that the bloody tip of the mirror shard was now digging into his stomach.

"Say goodbye to your little lapdog, Trager," Ivan said through gritted teeth. He turned his head to where Trager had been standing, but no one was there. Before the confused Ivan even had time to scan the room for the missing doctor, something exploded from his chest.

The doctor, now standing directly behind the giant, was holding on tightly to the handle of the large bone shears that were now plunged deep into Ivan's back.

Ivan's body seized as he struggled to breathe. Blood sputtered from his lips, dotting Simon's face and shirt. He shakily tilted his head down, and his bulging eyes gaped at the crimson-coated metal protruding from his chest. His body began convulsing and he released his hold on Simon, who dropped to the floor like a ragdoll. He staggered away, only getting a few steps before he fell to his knees and collapsed. He coughed once—twice, splattering blood onto the tiled floor, and fell silent.

Trager lifted his mask and spat a large brown glob on the dead man's back. Replacing his mask, he pressed his right foot onto the small of Ivan's back and ripped the shears from the thick flesh. After fastening the bloody shears to his apron, he turned and pulled Simon up from the floor.

"C'mon, buddy. Walk it off," prodded the doctor, draping his assistant's arm over his shoulders to help him stand.

Simon only replied with a grunt as he held his broken ribs. Slowly but surely, both men made it back to the Pit, and were immediately met by the loud clanking of iron bars and the shouts of praise from the inmates. Trager looked all around as he half-carried Simon over to Watcher's cell. The lean man looked surprised to see them.

"Damn. You did it. Lucky bastards, you actually _did it_," said Watcher, his usual grin plastered on his face. Trager tilted his head.

"I'm guessing this was your doing." Trager gestured to the livid inmates. Watcher shrugged innocently.

"What can I say? I do so love to gossip . . ." Watcher pressed himself up to the bars again. "So, did you really kill him? Or are you just bullshitting again?" In response to his question, Trager glared at him and moved so that Simon's broken body was in full view. Watcher let out a wolf-whistle.

"God damn. Think he'll make it?" Watcher gave the doctor a sly, knowing look. Trager shrugged.

"Hell if I know. Hey buddy, you gonna be okay?" he asked, jostling Simon's limp body. His assistant lifted his head slowly and gave him the dirtiest look he could muster.

"Eh, I think he's fine," Trager shrugged. "Let's go back home. You know . . . you should be _thanking _me. I saved your ass and now I'm gonna fix ya up, good as new," said the doctor.

Simon's eyes shot open and he wriggled out of the doctor's grasp.

Struggling to stand erect, he blurted out, "_No!_—I-I mean, I don't think that will be necessary. I'm feeling much better! Much, much better," he assured the other man, clenching his teeth together. The mad doctor gave him an incredulous look.

"You sure, buddy? You took quite a beating back there. C'mon, I'll fix you up when we get back. Free of charge! I've even figured out this nifty little trick for fixing broken bones, and hey! If that doesn't work I could always just _get rid of them _. . ."

"NO!" Simon choked out. Then, he took off as fast as his injured body could go, out the door and down the hall.

Trager crossed his arms and shook his head, chuckling to himself.

"What a trooper!Always so eager to get back to work. I must be better at this 'boss' business than I had previously thought."

Watcher pressed his right cheek to the bars of his containment cell, chuckling darkly to himself as he watched the madman walk after his retreating assistant.

_Oh little Simple Simon, _he mused. _What trouble you are in for when the good doctor catches up to you._

* * *

**Whew, longest chapter thus far! About 3,150 words. Also, I will be posting the next couple of chapters every Monday. After that, I will try to stick with the schedule, but it all depends. In other news, a DLC for the game is being made, called Whistleblower. This DLC is supposed to be played from the P.O.V. of the informant who tipped off Miles Upshur. It takes place before and during the break-out. I am **_**extremely**_** excited for its release (reportedly in Quarter 1 of this year!). I'm sure this DLC will rip whatever little legitimacy my story has to shreds. Oh well. Carry on with your day, sirs and madams. :)**


	4. Memories

_**I do not own Mount Massive Asylum, Doctor Trager, or Father Martin Archimbaud. They belong to Red Barrels. I do, however, own Simon Poleski. Enjoy!**_

* * *

The frightened and injured man half-jogged around a corner. The doctor had now entered the hallway he had just come from, inciting Simon to limp faster. Where he was limping to, he was not certain. All he knew was that he had to get away from his maniacal boss. Mount Massive was huge, and full of many dark crevices and hidey-holes. He would find a good place to hide, preferably a comfortable one so that he could rehabilitate. Then, once he was at full health, well . . . he'd cross that bridge when he got that far. _If_ he got that far.

He paused as he came to a T-intersection. In front of him was the main elevator and a staircase that was separated from the hallway by an iron-gated door. Simon tried the handle, but it wouldn't budge. There was no way he was using the elevator; it would make too much noise and probably wouldn't move fast enough to prevent the doctor from seeing him. That left the options of either going left or right, and he had to decide fast.

_ Right is usually right_, he thought as he lunged forward to go down the hallway to his right. Immediately upon turning the corner, his bruised and battered chest collided with a dark-clothed one with a leather-belted cross buckled to it.

Simon suppressed a yelp and winced, in part from the pain brought on by the rough contact, and in part from the knowledge of just _who _he had ran into. He looked up into the face of the asylum's resident priest and was suddenly grabbed by each shoulder and pulled forward before being roughly pressed against a wall.

"Do not be frightened, my child," Father Martin, as the asylum's occupants had come to call him, hissed into Simon's panicked face. Simon blinked away the spittle as the Father continued.

"I am only here to help. Please, I beg of you, come with me!" he whispered urgently, tugging Simon by the front of his shirt.

Simon pulled back away from the insane man, trying to break free of his grip. "W_-_What? No thanks, sir, but I don't plan on going anywhere that involves being led by a—"

"Shhh, shh! _He_ is coming. The doctor!" Father Martin hissed in disdain as he looked toward the corner of the hall. Simon ceased his struggling and listened. The priest was right; he was barely able to make out faint whistling coming from somewhere further down the hallway he had just come from.

_Damnit! If he finds me . . ._

Simon shuddered involuntarily and turned back to the mad priest, who was still clutching onto the front of his shirt. He nodded his head vigorously. "O-Okay. I'll follow, I'll follow," he said quickly, but the priest had already begun trotting down the dark hallway with Simon in tow before he had even finished his sentence.

_ Out of the frying pan, into the fire, _Simon thought dismally. He could only hope that the mad Father's company would be more beneficial than the mad Doctor's.

* * *

The skeleton-like man made his way down the hallway his assistant had unceremoniously hobbled down before him, whistling a soft, melodic tune. He was in good spirits after his encounter with that overgrown dunce. Also, the cheering of his adoring fans only helped to inflate his already large ego.

Unfortunately, his good mood was tapering off as he pursued his assistant. He rounded a corner, fully expecting to see the injured man stumbling away, but found the hallway was deserted.

_Where the devil did he go?_ he mused. After all that action and cheering, the little prude had ran out, leaving it up to his esteemed boss to rope him back in. Did he think that just because of his superior's success in subduing that mindless meathead that he could just take a vacation? What the hell was he paying him for? Well, he wasn't paying him at all, but if he was, it would certainly not be to diddle-dally. Oh, Simon was being _very_ unprofessional, and that just would not do!

The doctor stopped his whistling and listened. The hallway branched off in two directions, and neither of which sounded occupied. A sign next to the elevator read:

**Rec Room** ←

**Rooms 107-121** ←

**Rooms 108-122** →

**Chapel** ↑

From behind the cracked spectacles, his eyes hovered over the last location and he let out an angry growl. No way in _h__ell_ was he dealing with that sniveling, self-righteous nutcase. Or, he thought with no small amount of sadism, maybe he _should_ pay the priest a visit. He glanced over to the elevator. Maybe taking out his current frustrations towards his assistant's total disregard for work ethics on the homicidal preacher would put him at ease. Well, what the hell was stopping him? Immediately several very crucial reasons as to why he shouldn't hunt down the priest surfaced to the forefront of his fractured mind.

One_,_ he was mad at his assistant; no need to waste time tracking down ol' priesty. That would be counter-productive, and Richard Trager liked to think that he was a very productive person. Two, the Walking Sausages would probably be lurking around somewhere. They were already wary of him and his antics. And, they were _huge._ Not Walker-huge, but still more well-built than he was, and, despite himself, Trager was . . . disconcerted by their presence. They were just so fucking creepy! And that was saying a lot for Trager. And three, not only did he have Thing 1 and Thing 2 at his beck and call, but the priest also had a good number of followers.

_Why the fuck don't I have a bunch of followers? _Trager questioned with a frown. _Oh that's right. I ended up killing them! _A low chuckle escaped his lips as his mind wandered to his past experiments. He was pulled away from his thoughts and back to the issue at hand. He looked back up to the sign again.

_Hmm. Right is usually the right way to go_, he thought to himself. So with that thought in mind, he opted to go left, for right was a cliché choice, and he despised clichés. He turned and walked down the dark hall until he came to the first door. Once he got Poleski back and dealt with his disobedience, he could return to his patients and plot accordingly on how to take down the old bible-thumper.

_All in due time, Rick_, he chided himself.

With a sneer, he opened the door, intent on finding his assistant and dragging him back to the Male Ward. Whether it be in one piece . . . or _several._

* * *

Simon huffed and grunted as he tried to keep up with Father Martin's brisk pace. The priest did not seem to notice the state of his not-so-wiling companion, or maybe he just didn't care. Either way, the pace at which the two were going was definitely not recommended for someone with Simon's injuries.

Simon had been dragged all the way down the dark hallway, which they were nearing the end of. In a few more strides, the tugging ceased as they both stopped in front of a door. Simon could barely make out the priest's grubby hand as it gripped the doorknob and twisted it. The door opened inward, and Simon was roughly shoved into the small room. He nearly tripped over his own two feet now that he had no one supporting most of his weight. He regained his balance and stood up, wincing from the quick movement. Thunder cut through the night sky, followed by a bolt of lightning that lit up the whole room, and Simon noticed a lone window in front of him. It was broken, its glass littering the floor in front of it and letting in rain from the outside. The ripped curtains were dancing hauntingly in the strong breeze.

Suddenly, Simon was propelled forward towards the window. He stunted his momentum by gripping the windowsill. With a hiss of pain, he jerked his hands away from the edge. They were now a bloody mess, with several gashes etched into his palms. Broken glass. _Damn it all!_ He angrily turned back to face Father Martin.

"Go on, my son!" said the priest, motioning towards the open window. "Salvation awaits you beyond that threshold. I will meet you on the other side!"

Simon inwardly hoped that he meant the literal other sideand not the other _other side_. He looked questioningly to the window again.

"Wait!" he exclaimed, turning back. "Aren't you—" The door to the small room shut and clicked. ". . . coming." Simon let out a curse and hobbled over to the door. He grabbed the knob and attempted to turn it. His bleeding palms made the feat difficult, but it didn't matter. The madman had locked him in. Simon sighed irritably. Did this nutcase seriously think he was going to go out an open window, _more than two stories above ground_, and walk on a narrow ledge to _God knows where_, in the _pouring rain?_ Did he really think he was that crazy, to do such an outlandish thing? Simon ignored the irony of that question, and took to surveying his surroundings. There wasn't much to the room besides a padded office chair, a wooden desk, and a filing cabinet. He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and slowly lowered himself into the padded chair, hissing slightly at his protesting joints and ribs. If he was going to risk his life to reach an unknown—and most likely unsavory—destination, then _by God_ he was going to relax first!

The desk in front of him had a sleek black computer atop it, along with a pen-holder containing various styles of pens and other objects. Simon sat there for several minutes, staring at the desk blandly. He was tired, his whole body was aching, and now that his nerves weren't as frazzled, he was _bored_. The very thought of being bored in a place like this was enough to bring a mirthless smile to Simon's chapped lips.

After several uneventful minutes, he gave into his boredom and began rummaging through the contents of the desk. He reached out and pulled open a drawer on the right side. It was filled with note-pads, paper clips, rubber bands, several unsharpened pencils, a mechanical sharpener for said unsharpened pencils, some push-pins, and a whole lot of dust. Nothing of great interest.

After looking through every drawer of the desk, the only interesting items he had found were several files containing documents, and a novel. If he would have had his reading glasses and proper lighting, he might have actually taken the time to read some of the novel. Right now, though, he couldn't even make out the novel's title. Simon lay the book down on the desk and folded his arms. Maybe he could catch a few z's. Doubtful, considering his environment, but he would just have to try.

Just then, as if on cue, a large gust of chilling wind blew through the entire room, sending several papers scattering to the floor and blowing open the novel's pages. Simon brought his arms around his body and shivered against the biting cold. For several moments, he sat there shivering and cursing his ill fortune. His tired eyes wandered absentmindedly over the contents on the desk, observing the loose pages of documents.

_Wait a minute . . ._

Something was poking out from between the novel's pages. Simon reached out with his bad hand and pinched the corner of the mystery parchment, and slid it out from between the pages. A photograph! It was hard to make out what was on it in the dark, but as he brought it closer to his face he could just make out the image of a smiling boy, wearing a red and blue baseball cap. The boy looked to be no more than eight, and was missing a tooth.

Simon held the flimsy picture in his trembling hand, his mind flitting with memories of his old life; the one he had prior to his incarceration at Mount Massive. He did not want to be reminded of what once was, and it didn't help that he was currently sitting at a desk in an office. Against his wishes, he began thinking of all the dull days he had spent working in a cramped cubical, at a desk much like the one he was at now. Instead of a sleek black computer, a bulky and outdated fossil had adorned his old desk. His desk, he recalled, was also much messier than the squeaky clean one in front of him.

He looked back at the picture of the smiling boy, and thought of the pictures he had placed on his old desk. One was of him and a dark brown Labrador named Max. Another was of him kneeling next to a sickly-looking woman in a hospital bed. She was wearing the standard hospital gown, an IV jutting out of her frail hand. In her arms was a baby, bundled in a pale pink blanket. Another photo was of him and a little girl with dirty-blonde curls. Both of them were dressed in puffy winter coats and other winter-ware. They were positioned on a red sled surrounded by snow. The girl's face was bright red as she smiled, several of her teeth missing, at the camera.

Before Simon knew it, tears began to prick at his eyes. Slowly, he lay the photo back between the book's pages and closed it. He hadn't thought of his daughter in some time, and in his wife's case, several years. Simon's heart began to hurt by how much he missed them both in that moment. It ached even more when he realized he had almost forgotten them completely. He wanted to blame it on the medication, but that was a pitiful excuse to forget one's wife and child.

_Oh how much hurt can be brought on by a few pesky memories . . ._

Solemnly, Simon craned his neck to gaze out the open window. The cold outside air did not seem to affect him so much anymore. His body, once wracked with pain and shivers, was utterly numb. This should have been a good thing. But it wasn't. Simon felt empty. No, no, that wasn't even totally correct, for he didn't seem to be able to feel anything at all.

He was still staring at the window with dull, dead eyes. Before he knew it, he had stood up from his sitting position and dragged his feet over to the window and looked out. The sky was dark, the clouds overhead preventing any light from the moon to break through. Beyond this window was freedom. Freedom from this accursed place. Freedom from the physical torment. Freedom . . .

_Salvation. _

The word that the priest had used echoed through Simon's mind as he stared down at the concrete pavement below. "It would be so simple," he muttered under his breath. On a sudden impulse, Simon found himself climbing up over the windowsill, ignoring the broken glass digging into his bleeding palms, and planting his bare feet firmly onto the narrow ledge below. He turned his body around so that he was facing away from the window. The wind and rain battered his face and front, but he didn't care. He didn't seem to be able to care about anything at the moment. One small, coordinated jump and he would be rid of this place forever. Or so he hoped. The last thing this place needed was a ghost . . .

_"So goddamn weak."_

Simon's eyes widened and his head snapped up, looking all around him. "W-Who said that?" he asked hesitantly.

Only the howling wind answered him. He looked behind him and saw that the door to the office was still shut, and the room was empty. The voice . . . Someone had definitely spoken to him. It sounded very familiar, and Simon could feel the anger from earlier that night returning.

_"You're pathetic!"_

"Sh-Shut up. Shut up, shut up!" he shouted out into the night, his pained words lost amongst the wind and rain.

With a loud crack, the sky lit up, causing Simon to jerk back against the broken window. His feet slipped out from beneath him and he fell. He hit the ledge roughly on his rump, making him cry out from pain and shock. To his horror, he began to fall forward, and he twisted his body—very painfully—so that he was able to grab onto the ledge. He was now dangling nearly thirty feet in the air, huffing and puffing as he struggled to support his weight.

_"Weak. Pathetic. Cry, you little shit, cry!"_ The gruff voice sounded over the loud pounding in Simon's ears. Simon winced and shut his eyes tightly as he clung to the ledge.

_"Give up,"_ taunted the hideous voice. Simon cracked open his eyes and clenched his teeth.

No.

**_No._**

"NO!" Simon cried out. Consumed by rage and filled with renewed energy, Simon managed to hoist himself up and lift his right leg over the ledge. Now in no immediate danger of falling, he grabbed onto the windowsill and rose on shaky legs. Once he regained his bearings, he turned and cried out to the thundering sky, "Ah-HA! Haha! I am _not_ weak! You hear me?! I am NOT—"

"Oy! Shut the fuck up out there, ya' damn loony! Some o' us are tryin' to pray o'er here!"

Simon turned to his left and saw an inmate leaning out of a window. He glanced back to the ground contemplating his next course of action. He had just escaped a fatal fall, a fall which he did not plan on making again any time soon. His adrenaline was leaving him, and the numbness from before was long gone, giving way to the bitter cold. He shivered from the wind blowing against his rain-soaked clothes. The priest had told him to go out the window and follow the ledge, presumably to the other window that the man was currently leaning out of.

Simon tore his eyes away from the ground and back to the angry inmate. There was light behind him, indicating electrical power, and from his limited view of the room, Simon could make out the corner of a bed. He could use a bed right about now. And a room that had a working window. The choice was obvious.

"H-Hold on!" called Simon as he started making his way towards the open window. "I'm coming over!"


	5. Unexpected Company

_** I do not own Mount Massive Asylum, Doctor Trager, or Father Martin Archimbaud. They belong to Red Barrels. I do, however, own Simon Poleski and Michael Sanderson. Enjoy!**_

* * *

"Fucking shit!"

Doctor Trager slammed the door closed and kicked it with his foot.

"Useless _. . . _goddamn_ useless_," he muttered angrily to himself. He looked down the long-ass hallway he had spent the better part of forty-five minutes searching through. If this one hallway took nearly an hour to scavenge, then he was in deep shit.

The doctor let out a groan as he pressed on down the hall. There were two more rooms he had not yet checked. After finishing his searching here, he planned on backtracking to the opposite hall and looking through those offices. And if _that_ failed, he would go downstairs to the basement. Not many people ventured down there, so it seemed plausible one could safely hold up in one of the many pitch-black rooms. He just hoped that Simon wasn't running around in the sewers.

And, as a last resort, he would go back to Watcher and see what the man knew. He loathed this option, for not more than an hour ago he emerged from the Pit victorious. Coming back to ask information on his _own assistant's_ whereabouts would be downright embarrassing! He'd be a laughing stock. Oh, he could hear the taunts now.

_ "Trager can't even keep his own bitch in line!"_

_ "Trager can't even catch a cripple!"_

He'd never fucking live that down. It would take months to regain even _half_ of the respect he currently had in the asylum. That little shit was going to pay if he didn't show himself soon. Well, he was going to pay either way, but that mattered not to the doctor. The sooner Poleski owned up to his punishment, the better. Hopefully the little weasel had enough sense to stay away from others.

Scowling, Trager continued his pace to the next door. He was beginning to wish he had Father Martin's charisma so that he could garner some followers of his own. It would have made his search go more quickly, but alas, he did not possess the priest's charisma or men. And so, he opened the last door on the left and entered the darkened room. His hand fumbled against the wall, searching for some kind of switch. The electricity still worked (somewhat) in this area. His fingers found what they were looking for and the light came on with a small _click_.

At the same time, a desk in the far corner of the room let out a gasp.

While the mad doctor occasionally questioned the well-being of his sanity—what was left of it, anyway—he was still pretty sure that desks, or any other inanimate object for that matter, did not _gasp_.

Removing the large pair of bone shears from his apron, he took a step towards the oak desk. In his most pleasant and calming voice, which he had exercised a lot with years of dealing with his pompous and bigoted superiors and colleagues, he addressed the frightened piece of furniture.

"Who's over there? Please show yourself. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not like the others out there."

No response. Trager frowned, wondering if maybe whoever was behind the desk saw through his façade, until a confused sounding voice spoke up.

"Mr. Trager? Is that you?" it asked timidly.

The doctor swallowed his pride and an impulse to growl at the impudent voice and replied, "Yeah, it's me. Please, just come out from behind the desk."

"Oh thank goodness!" came the relieved reply as a man wearing a guard uniform rose from behind the desk. "I could've sworn you were another one of those—" The young guard's voice trailed off as he took in the appearance of the other man in the room. Trager sneered at the openly gaping guard.

"Hmm? One of those _what?_" asked Trager in a sickly-sweet voice, taking more steps closer to the guard. The guard had backed away from the desk until his back was pressed against the wall. Trager was close enough now that he could see the guard's I.D. on his uniform. **M. Sanderson**, it read.

"Oh my God . . . What the hell happened to you?" questioned the guard, concern lacing his words.

Still holding the shears, Trager folded his arms and took on a relaxed pose. "The same thing that happened to the rest of this place," he said simply. "Oh, but don't worry about me. I rather like the new changes to the place. It's much more _liberating_."

The guard stood stock-still, eyeing the doctor worriedly. Trager could see the confliction on the man's face.

"Sir, we really need to get out of here. Everything's gone to hell. Doctor's have been ripped apart, same with security. They . . ." The guard swallowed hard. ". . . they even took out the SWATs! It's not safe here/ We have—"

"Oh I am very aware of the state of the asylum, Mr. Sanderson," Trager cut in. "And I have no intention of leaving. Not that I could, even if I wanted to. As it stands now, there is only one way out of this place." He paused as he raised his shears level with his chest. The rusty blades snapped open and closed as the doctor began slowly advancing on the wide-eyed guard.

"Would you like me to show you it?"

Sanderson's hands shot out, palms forward in a pleading gesture. "Please sir, you're not well. Put—Just put that damn thing away, for Christ's sake! I don't wanna have to hurt you." His trembling hand was reaching for the nightstick attached to his belt.

_What good that'll do ya, buddy_, thought Trager.

The doctor had gone around the desk, and was now standing several feet from the poised guard. Both men had their weapons out, ready for the upcoming scuffle. Sanderson gripped the nightstick tighter, glancing nervously between the bloody shears and the former executive's scarred and masked face.

Trager stood there, an air of complete calm about him despite the deadlock grip he had on his weapon. He was smirking behind his surgeon's mask, a murderous gleam in his eyes behind the cracked spectacles.

Adopting his executive-voice, he said, "Mr. Sanderson, I am sorry to inform you that Mount Massive Asylum is no longer in need of your services."

_Oh ho-ho. This is going to be __**fun**__._

* * *

Simon lay on his back in the stiff bed. After crossing the narrow ledge and entering through the window, he had explained his situation to the other man. The man was still rather peeved at his earlier unexplained outburst, but reluctantly allowed Simon to use the lone bed in the room, which Simon assumed was used to house Murkoff employees.

Within minutes, Simon was out cold. His "roommate" could have been a murderer for all he knew, but he could honestly care less. He was injured, with cracked and broken ribs, a sore throat and neck, and he was pretty sure he had sustained some sort of concussion. It probably wasn't the wisest idea to sleep, but if he fell into a coma then so be it.

Yes, it had been one of _those_ days.

He had been asleep for what seemed, to him, about twenty minutes before something external stirred him from his slumber. It was some sort of shallow noise, accompanied by little wisps of air that licked at his placid face. Simon did not dare open his eyes. He had not escaped one monster just to come face-to-face with another one.

_Oh God,_ _what is it now?_

"Hey."

Simon ignored the voice, willing himself to go back to into the sublime state of unconsciousness.

"Hey, wake up," it said again. Simon's body was jostled as a rough hand gripped his arm and shook it. Against his better judgment his eyes snapped open, and he nearly squealed. A man wearing a grisly stitched up Halloween mask was leaning over him. The man was close enough that Simon could feel his hot breath on his face, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. The "mask" spoke to him again.

"I am here to bring you to the others. Please follow."

Simon continued to stare up at the man confusedly. _What others? Who is this man? Where am I, again?_ His muddled mind was unable to process any of these questions. Before he could do anything, he was yanked up off of the bed by the masked man. How many times in one day was he going to get pulled around by strange men? The man led Simon by his arm, out the doorway and into the hall. Simon winced at the pain in his ribs, but allowed the masked man to lead him further into the darkness.

"Where are we going?" Simon asked groggily to his escort. The man didn't reply, or even seem to acknowledge Simon having spoken.

_Oh goody . . ._ He thought. _It's one of those aloof types._

The masked man in front turned a corner. Past the dark silhouette of his companion, Simon could make out a light source at the end of the hall; several candles on top of a table. Smeared above the flames was a dark arrow pointing to the right.

"Hurry up," came a raspy voice from in front of him.

"S-Sorry. I'm not well," Simon said timidly. The man said nothing and continued to tug Simon forward. They neared the table and took a right, following the arrow's direction. The injured man felt a cold chill go down his spine when he realized what had been used to create the ghastly marking.

Blood.

Simon tore his eyes from the bloody arrow when he felt the man in front of him stop at a wrought-iron door. The masked man let go of his hold on Simon's forearm and removed some kind of lanyard from around his neck. From the light of the candles, Simon saw that there was a small key attached to it, which the man shoved into the old lock and twisted. The door opened with a creak, and Simon was once again being led forward by the other man.

"We go up," said the masked man. To further emphasize his point, he pointed up the wooden flight of stairs with his free hand and looked to Simon expectantly. Simon looked doubtfully from the steps to the man next to him.

Simon shook his head and pulled his arm out of the man's grasp. "You have got to be kidding. I can hardly walk, let alone climb a flight of stairs. I'm sorry, but I just can't do it," he apologized, raising his hands in a defensive manner. The man gave Simon a hard look, making him feel very uncomfortable. In an instant, the man moved forward, and with surprising strength, picked up Simon and slung his body over his right shoulder. The action elicited an indignant hiss from the injured man.

"What are you doing_?_ This isn't helping!" Simon protested as the man began ascending the stairs. "Unhand me!" he shouted, now pounding on the man's back. To his disappointment, the man did not relent. All Simon could do now was allow himself to be carried like an invalid—which technically he _was_—up the stairs. He hissed in pain as each movement his kidnapper made caused his pained torso to grind against the man's bony shoulder. Simon glared at the ground and watched as more and more steps appeared behind his captor. After a few more painful steps, the two of them reached the landing. The man turned to go up the next flight of stairs, and Simon got a view of a rain-splattered window.

This day sucked. Badly. Had it even been a whole day? In here, it was hard to tell when a day had ended and a new one had started. It seemed that nearly every time Simon looked out a window, it was either dark, cloudy, or raining. Or a combination of all three. The thought of time made him think of all the things that had happened within the past few hours, and then the past few weeks. So many things had changed in his life, and none for the better. Before coming here, he didn't think his life could get any worse, but of course he had been proven wrong.

The man beneath him halted, and Simon felt the grip around his legs slacken and he was being put down. The pain in his ribs intensified once the pressure they had gotten used to vanished, and Simon hunched over and gripped his sides in an attempt to soothe their ache.

"Was that really necessary?" he hissed to the other man.

The man was not facing him, and was instead unlocking the door in front of them. Once the door was open, he replaced the key around his neck and turned to face Simon. His arm reached towards Simon's, and Simon jerked it away.

"I'll walk on my own accord, _thank you_," he growled.

The masked man stared blankly at him, but turned back towards the door and walked through. Simon's eyes trailed after his retreating form, and he let out a defeated sigh and followed.

His escort had taken a right after opening the wrought-iron door. Simon peered out the doorway to his left and found that the hallway was blocked off by a reinforced glass door, most likely locked. Looks like he was going right.

Had it not been for the candles lining the walls and the candelabrum in the corner of the hallway, Simon would not have been able to see a thing. When his eyes caught sight of the dark writing on the walls further down, he almost wish he hadn't been able to.

**GoD hates SIckness** was smeared crudely on the wall in blood. A sign next to the macabre display read **Chapel**.

Yep. He was in the priest's territory now. He continued slowly forward, coming up to a left turn. Once he had rounded the corner, Simon saw yet more blood-writing. A thick red cross adorned the wall in front of him, and further to the left were the words **GoD hates Money**.

Simon turned away from the bloody scribbles and saw more candles on the floor, along with more seemingly random nonsense written on the walls, not in blood. There was another candelabrum to his left, illuminating even more crimson lettering.

**GoD AlWaYs ProVides a waY.**

* * *

**Kind of a shorter chapter this time, compared to the last two. I promise, the next one will be longer! Also, I sort of have an idea on where I'm going with this story; I'm just having trouble on how to go about getting there. If anyone has any ideas or input, let me know in a review or just PM me. Thanks for reading!**


	6. A New Friend

_** I do not own Mount Massive Asylum, Doctor Trager, or Chris Walker. They belong to Red Barrels. I do, however, own Simon Poleski. Enjoy!**_

* * *

Trager sat in the padded chair, a half-dwindled cigarette poking out from between his lips. He had removed his surgical mask, which was sitting on the desk in front of him. His legs were propped up on top of the desk, and he was leaning back in a padded office chair. In his boney, wrinkled hands was the recently severed head of Guard Sanderson. After having dealt with the pesky guard, Trager took to rummaging through the drawers of the desk and had found a pack of Camel cigarettes, along with a lighter.

Thank God someone had decided to ignore the company policy of not smoking indoors.

The mad doctor handled the guard's head as one would a basketball, rotating it around in his hands and occasionally tossing it up and down playfully. Killing the guard had subdued his anger and frustration towards his assistant, but the reprieve was short-lived. _Way_ too short-lived.

He exhaled some smoke out of the corner of his mouth. Prior to his life at the asylum, Trager had hardly dabbled in the bad habit of smoking, but right now he was stressed beyond measure. So of course, the doctor was pleasantly surprised by his find and was now on his second cigarette. Screw lung cancer. Considering everything his body had undergone recently, he was sure contracting the horrible disease would do little to his already more-dead-than-alive husk.

He was broken out of his idle stupor by the door to the office buckling inward with a loud bang, making him jump in his chair and nearly dropping the head he was holding. He steadied himself just as the door buckled again and finally gave way, and a massive blood-covered monster barged into the room.

The skin around its nose and lips was torn away, causing its teeth to appear permanently bared. The massive thing was shirtless, and blood stained its large chest and round belly. Chains were wrapped around thick muscular legs at the ankles. But the most unsettling feature was its eyes. They were a penetrating milky white, as if blind. From where Trager was seated, the eyes seemed to possess an almost ethereal quality.

This monstrosity was known as Chris Walker: the asylum's watchdog.

Trager's curious expression turned to one of irritated boredom as soon as he recognized the massive man. "Oh. It's just you," he sighed, returning his gaze to the severed head in his lap and removing the cigarette from his mouth. "You know, that door wasn't even locked. You really should try the handle first. That's what it's there for."

"_Trager_," snarled Walker, standing up from his hunched position atop the broken door to face the obnoxiously relaxed-looking man, who currently had his grotesque feet propped up on an office desk. "What're you doin' in administrations?"

Trager looked up from the severed head in his hands and replied with mock innocence, "What? Am I not allowed free roam of my own asylum?"

Walker grunted and stretched the remaining skin on his face into a lipless, taunting smile—if it could even be called that. "If anything, it's Martin's asylum now."

"Don't you even mention that lunatic's name to me. And this is not _his_ asylum! If anything it should be mine! In case you haven't heard, due to recent events, I've been promoted to head doctor. AND I'm the only person in here who's actually qualified to run this hell-hole," Trager snapped. He looked down to the terrified face of the guard and absentmindedly placed his cigarette between its parted lips.

"Well, besides Langen," he added. "But currently he's rather . . . _unfit _. . . to run this place." The doctor trailed off, seemingly lost in his own dark thoughts. After a moment, his head snapped up to Walker, who had his pale eyes trained on him and was breathing heavily, as usual.

"Why are you still here? Don't you have some, I dunno, heads to rip off . . . or people to 'contain'? Or whatever the hell you do with your free time," Trager said condescendingly.

Walker took a step closer, teeth bared, and growled at the arrogant doctor.

"Calm down there, buddy. Just trying to make conversation," Trager sighed, rolling his eyes. Walker huffed in response.

"I'm looking fer someone."

"Yeah? Well join the fucking club," Trager murmured, leaning back in his seat. Once again, the doctor's mind went back to his assistant. Several dark images zipped through his head before he cut them off with an intake and exhale of breath. His eyes flashed back to Walker.

"So, who are _you_ after?" he asked.

"Some guard. Followed his scent to this room." Walker looked pointedly at Trager, as if knowing something was amiss. Taking note of the giant's suspicious glare, the man in the chair chuckled. Unbeknownst to Walker, the doctor was now gripping the severed head in his lap by its hair.

"Hmm. This guard you're looking for . . ." the doctor began slyly. "He wouldn't happen to look like _this_," Trager removed his feet from the desk and, quick as lightning, slammed the guard's head down on the wooden surface, causing the cigarette to fall from its lips, ". . . would he?"

Trager let loose a wave of raucous laughter as Walker stared at the severed head. The big man looked up to the cackling doctor, then back to the head, then again back to the doctor. With a predatory snarl, he strode over to the desk with speed uncharacteristic for someone of his great build.

Trager hardly had any time to react as his chuckling was cut off by a massive hand over his windpipe. A dry wheeze ripped from his mouth as he was pulled roughly over the top of the desk and held up to Walker's gnarled face.

For a moment, the massive man stood there grinding his teeth and growling as he held the gasping doctor in his meaty right hand. Trager gripped at his chained forearm, but otherwise did not give off the impression of a man who was being choked to death. He looked strangely composed. Accepting.

"_Ha_," he wheezed. "_Do it. I fucking dare you_," Trager was gritting his teeth, the corners of his scarred mouth turned upwards in a rueful smile.

The sight infuriated Walker, and the big man was just about to snap the smaller man's neck—to end the pitiful man's life—when something in his dulled mind clicked. Still snarling, he parted his clenched teeth and spoke.

"No. Whether you realize it or not, you're helping." He raised his head, and his ethereal eyes darted around as if seeing something beyond the ceiling and walls. Still looking around, the large man continued. "It's spreading. Can you feel it?"

Trager was silent in the man's iron grasp. His smug grin deteriorated and his eyes narrowed at the big man, but he said nothing in response. Walker's eyes settled back on him, and he took the defiant silence as confirmation.

"I won't kill you, as much as I would like to. You're doing me a favor by cleaning up this mess. It needs to be contained. No other way . . ." Walker trailed off. From Trager's precarious position, he could see the far-off look in the big man's eyes when he spoke those last words.

Without warning, the hold on his neck loosened and he fell back onto the desk, knocking the guard's head to the floor. His hand immediately went to his throat and he began sucking in breaths of air.

"_Fuck . . . you_," Trager rasped weakly as Walker moved to leave. He was at the doorway in several steps, and turned back to the fuming doctor. He had just recalled something that Trager had mentioned earlier in their "conversation."

"I saw your pet."

The doctor stifled his ragged breaths and looked to the big man. He removed his hand from his throat. "Where?" he spat.

Walker studied Trager for a moment. The doctor was glaring at him; he could tell he was very pissed. A low chuckle emanated from deep within his chest, clawing its way out of his ripped mouth.

"Walker . . ." Trager said, warning lacing his words. "Where the _fuck_ _is he_?!" Trager demanded loudly. The big man's laughter had struck a nerve in him. He hated that this man was mocking him. _Him!_ And he knew where his assistant was, and he was _laughing about it_.

Walker silenced his amused chuckles and sneered.

". . . With Father Martin."

* * *

Simon entered through two sets of double-doors, which opened up to a narrow, high-ceilinged room with stained-glass windows. As he gazed upon the room, Simon was sure that next to the word 'ominous' in the dictionary, there would be a picture of this very room. Pale light streamed through the cracks in the stained-glass, traveling down in diagonal beams over rows of pews. The pews were positioned against the walls, leaving an aisle between them. Like the hallway, the room was lit by many candles. In the back, Simon saw a large wooden cross attached the far wall, behind a podium. In the middle of the room, four pews were arranged in a misshapen square. Each pew was full of men, some of which, Simon noticed, appeared to be stark naked.

_What was with all the unabashed nudity in this place? Was this a new fad or something?_ Simon wondered in disgust.

The masked man who had led Simon here motioned for him to follow as the former walked towards the group of men. Simon looked back to the doors, considering just running for it. His plan was dashed when he realized he didn't really have anywhere else to go. And on top of that, his escort had locked the stairway door behind him. Simon really had no choice but to join the group of men, all of whom he had no idea if they would greet him or eat him.

Simon's escort had slipped between a gap in the pews and took a seat in a space between two men. "Newcomer," Simon heard him say, addressing the whole group. Most of the seated men turned and acknowledged Simon with curious and mistrusting eyes—or just one eye, in a couple cases.

Simon gulped.

"Who're you?" said a shirtless man, sitting in the middle of the pew on Simon's right. Simon was close enough to take in the features of the men in the square. Most of them, from what he could tell, wore masks similar to the one his guide was wearing.

Realization hit Simon like a ton of bricks when he found that he could not find the tell-tale seam of a mask on one of the shirtless men. He looked over to another undressed man, then another, and then another. He failed to find any seams.

_Oh God,_ he thought with horror. _Those are their faces!_

Simon began to feel queasy. He did not want to be anywhere near these people, or this place. Screw it. He'd find some way out, even if he had to throw himself through the reinforced glass door in the hall. Hell, he still had a few sturdy bones left in him; what was a few broken more? He took a step back, about to make a hasty retreat.

"What are you, mute? I asked you a questin'," repeated the shirtless man. Simon froze mid-step.

"M-My name is Simon." His words were out of his mouth before he could even think of what he was saying.

The shirtless man grunted and looked in the direction of the pew opposite of him, apparently losing interest in the newcomer. Simon still stood there, his mind a complete blank.

"You just going to stand there gawking or are you gonna sit down?" said another man in the group. The voice nearly sent Simon into a bout of hysteria, but somehow he managed to remain outwardly calm. Once again, much to Simon's annoyance, his body seemed to act on its own; his feet shuffled forward and he moved between the pews and took a seat in the biggest empty space he could find. This put him between a bald man with a crooked nose, and a shivering man that was huddled up at the end of the pew. Simon stared at the convulsing man, in some kind of daze, when a voice to his right spoke up.

"Don't mind 'im. All he does is shake. He doesn't like people starin' at 'im, though. Makes him go all nutso."

Simon looked over to see that the crooked-nosed man had addressed him.

"Oh. Alright then," he replied dumbly.

The man next to him sneered. "You're new here, ain'tcha," he stated.

Simon's tired eyes looked the man over and he gave a small nod, slightly unnerved by the casual small talk this man seemed to be having with him. But, he was thankful that this man did not look as disconcerting as his peers.

"Yes. I've . . . actually never been to the chapel before," Simon said, glancing around the large room. "Honestly, I didn't even know there was one here."

The man next to him closed his eyes and shook his head. "No, no. That's not what I meant," he said. "You're new _here_."

Simon raised an eyebrow at the man, who in turn rolled his eyes.

"You know . . . to the asylum. How long have ya been a patient?" he asked.

"Oh. Um," Simon thought, mentally counting the days since he was admitted to Mount Massive. "It's been about two weeks, maybe three. How could you tell?"

Simon winced slightly when he felt movement from his left side. He jerked away from the touch and turned to see the trembling man, still curled up and still shivering.

"Well for starters, what you just did," scoffed the other man.

"What do you mean?" questioned Simon, turning back to him.

"You flinched. You're a flincher. An' you don't seem like one of those crazy types who do that on the daily, like 'im," he explained, nodding to the curled up man next to Simon.

"_Don't . . . Don't look at me_," came a small plea from Simon's left. Apparently the shivering man had seen the other acknowledging him.

"Sorry, man. Won't happen again," said the crooked-nosed man, returning his gaze to Simon. "And the other thing I noticed is you're pretty clean."

"Clean?" Simon was confused by the man's statement. He was sure it had been at least several days since he had bathed. His head began to throb, and he started feeling like he was rocking back and forth on the pew. All this talk was starting to get to him; every time he said something, the other man always responded with something that confused the hell out of him.

"Jeez-Louise," muttered the man offhandedly. "_Clean_. Not like them." He motioned towards the men in the other pews across from them. The men who Simon thought had been wearing masks.

"Oh. What . . . What happened to them?" Simon asked timidly.

The crooked-nosed man held Simon's gaze for a moment, and then brought his head down to stare at the floor. Simon looked away from the man and back to the patients, chatting idly to themselves.

When he had first seen them, he was reminded of some of Trager's patients, and wondered if they had had a run-in with the mad doctor and somehow managed to escape. That alone seemed unlikely to believe, but what he was seeing now looked very unnatural. The deformities of these men did not even seem to be man-made. Skin had been morphed into a synthetic-like material, or in some cases, Simon noted, the skin had been completely ripped away. Body parts were swollen; bad enough that the skin was breaking and giving way to blood and puss. Noses were either missing or rotting away on their rubber-like faces.

Simon thought he was going to throw up right on the spot when he examined an unclothed man in the pew adjacent to the one he was in. The man was covered head to toe with stitches. Marks, similar to chemical burns, ravaged his flesh, along with contusions.

_What in the hell was going on in this place . . ._

* * *

**Remember the man you meet after escaping from the room where Trager cut off Miles' fingers? Earlier on in this story, I called him by a different name, but I recently found out his real name is Mr. Langen. If you go on YouTube and type in "Outlast - All Dr. Trager Dialogue" you can hear some audio recordings that were not used in the game, and he specifically addresses a man named Mr. Langen. Seriously, go check it out, it's pretty cool—if not slightly disturbing!**

** Also, feedback is appreciated. While providing motivation for this story, it also gives me ideas and better lets me give readers what they want. Thanks for sticking with this story, guys!**


	7. Discovered

**This chapter is kind of a filler. It serves as a transition for the next plot point, which I am working on as we speak. Also, thank you to all of those who have reviewed, followed, favorited, and PM'd me. It's great getting to talk to readers one-on-one**_**. :)**_

_** I do not own Mount Massive Asylum, Doctor Trager, Father Martin, or The Brothers. They belong to Red Barrels. I do, however, own Simon and Sebastian. Enjoy!**_

* * *

Simon wasn't exactly sure when the fog in his head began to clear. He figured it was some time in between his conversation with the crooked-nosed man—whose name he had discovered was Sebastian—about his stay at Mount Massive and the somewhat humorous talk of clothing preferences of the asylum's inmates. Or rather lack thereof. Simon was just glad that he could now fully enjoy and interpret what the other man was saying. He couldn't remember the last time he had a conversation with another person who viewed him as an equal, let alone a conversation that spanned more than a few sentences.

". . . tastes like horseshit. Hey guy, you listenin'? Hello? Anybody home?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. What were you saying?" responded Simon. Maybe he wasn't quite as lucid as he thought.

"Man, you really are crazy. Although, I prefer you over ninety-five percent of the other guys in here," said Sebastian.

Simon didn't know whether to be insulted or elated that he had found a companion who thought so highly of him. He decided not to think on it too much; there were plenty of other things to think about now that he had some time to himself. Time to himself . . . Simon figured he should consider this a grace from God, but in the back of his mind he knew it wouldn't—_couldn't_—last. Things just didn't go that way for him anymore.

"So, mind tellin' me how that happened?" Sebastian asked, nudging Simon's right arm. Simon looked down and realized that he was talking about his hand.

"Oh," he said. "That."

"Yeah, what caused that? From what you've told me, you've only been here a couple a weeks. Much too soon for the white coats to get a hold of ya."

Simon thought for a moment before responding. "Do you . . . I mean," he began. "Have you heard of a man by the name of Trager?"

The man next to him kept his face neutral, much to Simon's surprise. He must not have heard of the mad doctor, for surely if he had, he would not be so straight-faced.

"You mean the doctor?"

Oh. So he had heard of him.

Simon nodded and continued. "Yeah, that's him."

"He did that to you? That's all he did?" Sebastian asked incredulously. "Damn, man, you are lucky. That maniac is fucked up in the head, 'cept he's much worse than that. He's fucked in the head _and_ he's got smarts. I heard from a guy that he pulled a man's intestines out through his own nose."

From his short time spent with the man, Simon could not recall him ever doing something like that. However, from what he _had_ seen, he wouldn't doubt the rumor's credibility.

"Yeah," said Simon, answering Sebastian's question.

"How'd you escape? Surely he didn't just fuck your hand up and let you go," said Sebastian.

Simon wasn't quite comfortable with the turn this conversation had taken. For one, he didn't like digging up memories of the horrible time spent with the madman, and two, he wasn't sure how another inmate would take it if he confessed to his involvement with the doctor. He chose to be tactful with his answer.

"I suppose I just got lucky, like you said," Simon said evasively. That was the most he was going to divulge to his new acquaintance. Sebastian took note of his purposely vague answer, and, to Simon's relief, did not press the matter further. Instead, he just muttered a short "Hm," and turned away. As Simon watched the man, his relief was swiftly replaced with guilt. The last thing he wanted to do was to tick off the other man, and now he worried he might have done just that.

"How did you end up here?" asked Simon, wishing to remain on the other man's good side but still steer the conversation away from himself.

"You mean, how I ended up with this lot?" Sebastian said, turning back to Simon. Simon nodded, and Sebastian turned away from him yet again and looked at the other men in the pews, as he seemed to do when he was in thought.

"The priest . . . you've met 'im, right? Father Martin?" Simon gave another small nod, prompting him to continue. "Well, he recruited me. He does that, you know? Goes around, picking up random guys and brings 'em here. Thinks he's 'saving' us, or some religious shit like that." Sebastian paused for several seconds, before turning back to Simon. "I guess, in a way he is saving us. Don't get me wrong—I don't buy into this bullshit, but in a place like this, numbers matter."

Simon had to agree there. He noticed that, oddly enough, the inmates in the asylum seemed to have formed cliques. There were the men in the Pit. There were Father Martin's men. Several other less prominent groups scrounged around the asylum, and if someone didn't belong in a group, they just partnered up with another loner. The only exceptions to the "group rule" were the burlier and more violent patients that no one in their right mind would mess with . . . and of course, the doctor.

Not knowing how to continue, both men refrained from further talk. While Sebastian seemed to stare off into space, Simon began listening to separate conversations going on in the square. His ears settled on one between two men in the pew to his left.

"When's the last time you got some, Jerry?"

"What d'you mean?" asked a grotesquely scarred man.

"_A girl_. When were you last with a girl?" the other man, a similarly scarred and shirtless one, asked the fully clothed man next to him. "And for heaven's sake, don't say it was yer mommy." The shirtless man, along with another who was listening in on the clothed one's left, began to chuckle. Simon could see the middle man become flustered as he began to speak up in protest.

"I'll have you assholes know I had a girlfriend before coming here," the man replied angrily. This shut the other two up. But not for long.

The man on the left him reached an arm around his shoulder in a playful manner. "Ah, was she pre-mortem or post?" he asked, smiling grimly. The other man shrugged out of his hold.

"What the fuck, man? That's disgusting!" he spat distastefully.

"What? I took you for the type that liked 'em _still_," teased the other man.

"Actually," spoke the shirtless man to the left, "I don't think he's ever had a girly-friend."

"Oh, my my, you're right," the other man cut in. "It's okay, friend. We don't judge if you swing that way," he spoke humorously into the middle man's ear. The three men continued to go back and forth, the one in the middle fighting a losing battle.

Simon watched the altercation with mild interest, feeling sorry for the man sandwiched between the two taunting men. He turned back to Sebastian and got the man's attention by hesitantly tapping his shoulder.

"Hmm?"

"So, is this all you do? Just . . . sit here, talking?" asked Simon. He had to admit, he was rather bored, but this was way much better than what he had been doing the past several days.

"Pretty much. We're free to leave if we want, supposedly, but I don't know why anyone would," said Sebastian.

"So, you do nothing else?" Simon highly doubted Father Martin would abduct men just to let them sit about, doing nothing. That seemed far too mundane for a man like him and a place like this.

Sebastian let out a sigh and folded his arms. "Well, the Father does send some of the more higher-ups out to, uh, persuade people into joining his cult. And we also have to sit through his little 'speeches' about spiritual mumbo jumbo."

"You don't seem like you fully agree with what the group does," stated Simon.

"Really? How'd you fuckin' guess?" retorted the other man. Both men gave small smiles at this. Once again, Simon was thankful he had found a companion that was not only kind to him, but was also not brainwashed or brain-dead like many other inmates he'd come across.

"You said this is a cult. What do they worship?" asked Simon, nodding towards the other men.

"You know, I'm not exactly certain myself. Like I said, I don't buy the bullshit. But this guy—the priest—claims to have seen something," Sebastian divulged cryptically. Simon raised an eyebrow. His attention was captured and he waited to hear the rest.

"Y'see, even before the breakout, Martin was always a religious nut. Believin' in some higher power or another. But when he saw this thing, he found somethin' solid to worship. It's sketchy, but from what I hear this 'thing' is a ghost. Or a demon. Well, I mean, the Father calls it a god, but I dunno what to believe."

Simon's eyes squinted slightly at this new information. A ghost? A crazy priest-wannabe saw a demonic ghost in this place? Simon supposed it explained some things, but really, a _ghost_? And these men, minus Sebastian, believed in it too, apparently.

Seeing the skepticism on Simon's face, Sebastian continued his tale. "I know, sounds crazy right? He calls it—damn . . . what was it again? 'The Walrunner' or somethin'. Anyway, he says it's the most powerful being ever to be seen by human eyes. Even more powerful than Jesus Christ himself."

"Do you believe him? That there is a . . . a ghost?" questioned Simon.

"Ah, that's a toughie," said Sebastian. "Under any other circumstances, I'd say hell no. But . . ."

Simon gave Sebastian a scrutinizing look.

"Hey, don't give me that look. I don't know if I believe in it or not. But I did see _something_," he said defensively. "It was dark, and it was storming. Coulda' been shadows for all I know." Shadows. Now that was something tangible that Simon could make logical sense of.

Realizing he was slouching, Simon moved to straighten out his back. He winced slightly as the movement jostled his ribs, but once he was in an upright position, he settled back down in the pew. He had almost forgotten about his ribs. _Damn that brute . . ._

"You okay? What, did you get beat up on the way here or somethin'?" asked Sebastian. He eyed the other man questioningly, awaiting an answer.

"I'm all right. Just . . . banged up a bit is all." Simon was about to say more, when he noticed that someone was watching him intently. Across from him was a patient. He looked like many of the others, scarred and shirtless. On the left side of his skull, there was a mass of deformed tissue. He was leaned forward with his arms ramrod straight as his claw-like hands gripped the seat of the pew. His eyes were on Simon.

Keeping his gaze on the man across from him, Simon turned slightly to address Sebastian. "Hey, who is that man?"

Sebastian looked around for the aforementioned man before Simon reiterated, "The one directly across from us."

Sebastian looked at the opposite pew and gave the man a quick once-over. "Him? No, I don't know 'im. All I know is he's a part of this group. Why?"

"He's been looking at me," answered Simon. He gave the man another quick glance before looking back to Sebastian.

"Eh, I wouldn't worry too much. If the worst he's doing is just starin', then I think you'll be fine," Sebastian said reproachfully.

"I . . . Yes, I guess you're right. I'm just uptight. I haven't exactly had a great day," sighed Simon.

"None of us have," Sebastian said with a shrug. "Shit, have you seen these guys we're with? Next to them, you're as swell as the fucking Queen."

It was true, Simon admitted. Things could be much worse for him. But that still didn't mean that the man that was staring at him didn't mean any harm. After a few moments, Simon decided it was best to just ignore the man's glares. He and Sebastian continued to talk about mundane things such as favorite foods, hobbies, and strangely enough, politics. It was quite interesting to hear his new friend's, ah, _opinions_ about the topic. As the conversation continued on, Simon still felt the growing sensation in his stomach that things were not all right. When he glanced over to the man across from him, his suspicions were confirmed. The scarred man was still staring at him, and when both of their eyes met, the other hastily leaned over and whispered something into another man's ear. Simon could feel his heart rate climb and his muscles tense as he watched on.

_He knows something. He recognizes me. He knows who I am. _

"Shit."

"Hmm?" asked Sebastian.

Simon didn't respond. Instead, he watched as the man who had been staring at him, along with his friend, stood up from the pew.

"I know you," hissed the man, pointing an accusing finger at Simon. The men in the pews began to quiet down and were now watching the hyperventilating man as he continued to address Simon.

"I-I know you!" he shouted again. "You son of a bitch! Motherfucker!" Without much warning, he lunged at the frightened Simon, only to be held back by Sebastian. The man was thrashing around like a cat trying to avoid taking a bath. It was a wonder how Sebastian could even hold him back.

"Hey man, what the fuck is your problem, huh?" Sebastian demanded. His hand was gripping the other man's arm as he used his own shoulder to keep him at bay. By this point, Simon had climbed over the back of the pew and had backed away from the altercation.

"He's a fucking traitor is what he is!" screamed the irate patient as he struggled against Sebastian's hold. "I oughta kill you! I'll kill you, I'll kill you. YOU HEAR ME?"

"Hey, hey! Calm the fuck—oomf!" Sebastian was knocked to the side by a sharp punch to his ear, courtesy of the shirtless man's friend. Preoccupied with the new threat, Sebastian was forced to release his hold on the enraged patient, who scrambled away from the bigger man and ran towards Simon.

"You fucking piece of shit!" he shrieked as he threw a punch at the other man. Simon managed to deflect the first blow, but was caught off guard by the second. The hit landed on his ribcage, causing him to cry out before he crumpled to the ground. The deranged man clambered on top of him.

"Kick his ass!" came a shout from the group. This was followed by several other hoots and hollers from the other patients. Whom they were rooting for was a mystery, for now there were four men engaged in a fight; Simon with his attacker, and Sebastian with his. Currently, Sebastian was winning his fight. He had managed to knee the other man in the gut and was taking advantage of the other man's momentary stun by smashing the man's face against the floor.

Simon on the other hand . . .

The man on top of him was throwing punches left and right. Luckily, he was so blinded by fury that the punches were badly aimed, and he was quickly wearing himself out. Simon held out his arms, deflecting some of the damage off of his forearms, but he himself was also tiring. It seemed that no one would come to his rescue, and if they did, it would be too late.

The man, having finally figured out that it was no use continually punching Simon's arms, managed to yank one out of the way and delivered a punch to Simon's nose. Simon yelped as pain exploded from his entire face. He felt warm liquid pooling down from his nose, coating his mouth and chin. For the third time tonight, Simon was face to face with death, and this time, Simon felt that this would finally do him in.

"What is this?"

"It appears to be a scuffle."

"Oh really? I never would have guessed."

Through his squinted and tear-bleared eyes, Simon saw his attacker cease his punching and look up towards something unseen. He also noticed that all of the shouting in the room had stopped.

With a short gasp, the man on top of him quickly stood and backed away towards the now-silent group. Simon remained where he was on the ground, confused, beaten, and terrified at whoever had caused the once rowdy room full of crazed men to fall quiet. When he heard footsteps coming towards him, he didn't dare move. From above him, there appeared two faces; both of them looking quite similar to the other, except one had hair while the other did not. Simon couldn't help but gasp at their cold appearances.

"Who's this? Someone new?"

"Yes. I have not seen him before."

"He looks...worried."

"That he does. Perhaps we should help him up?"

"Perhaps."

And with that, Simon felt both his arms being gripped and he was pulled up to a standing position. Had the two men not been holding him at each side, he was sure his legs would have given out from underneath him.

"Will anyone care to explain what is going on here?" came a raspy voice to Simon's right, much too close for comfort.

The men in the pews looked away and didn't say a word.

"I'll tell you what happened," someone—Sebastian, Simon noticed—spoke out from the group. "We had a bit of a misunderstanding. Y'see, this asshole jumped him," he motioned towards the shirtless man, and then to Simon, "and his buddy jumped me."

"With good fuckin' reason, too," spat the shirtless man. "Do any of you's know who that son of a bitch is? Huh? Do you?" he asked, pointing vigorously at Simon.

"There is no need for that kind of language in this place of worship," said the twin on Simon's left.

The man lowered his hand and bowed his head. "I'm sorry. I-I forgot my place, is all," he apologized.

"Quite."

"Should we tell the Father?" asked the balding twin to the other.

At the mention of Father Martin, the man's head snapped up and he held his hands out in a pleading gesture. "No-no! Don't tell him! I'm begging you, please!" he groveled. Some of the men in the room started to snicker, clearly wanting to see this man be put in his place.

"He will be here shortly. I think he should hear about this disobedience," said the twin with hair.

"I agree."

"Of course you do."

"And you," said the twin on Simon's right. Simon stiffened when he realized he was being addressed. "Take a seat."

The two brothers began walking, half-dragging Simon, over to the pews. Simon was then unceremoniously dropped down into the seat. Immediately he began to rub his swollen and bloodied nose, trying to alleviate the pain. Sebastian made his way over and sat down in the spot next to him, looking as calm as ever.

No words were spoken between the two as the twin brothers addressed the whole congregation. It was then that Simon noticed that they, like many of the others, were completely nude. By this point, he honestly wasn't surprised.

"The preacher will be with us in just a moment," said the one with hair. The man who attacked Simon had now gotten on his knees and had his eyes cast to the ground.

"And when he gets here," began the bald brother, "he will decide what to do with you ruffians." Both brothers looked reproachfully at Simon and Sebastian. Still cupping his nose, Simon looked to the ground.

_Fantastic job, Simon. You've managed to get yourself into even more trouble_, he thought despairingly. _And you may have brought your new friend down with you._

* * *

**Simon just cannot catch a break. Sorry to say, but this won't be changing any time soon. I am going for realism, and realism dictates that being a patient in an asylum overrun by bloodthirsty lunatics, mad priests and doctors, and ghosts will not bode well for anyone. Also, my updates are going to become a bit irregular. Sorry! Real world stuff and all that jazz...**


	8. The Holy Quest

**WARNING: Torture ahead!**

_**I do not own Mount Massive Asylum, Doctor Trager, Father Martin, or The Brothers. They belong to Red Barrels. I do, however, own Simon and Sebastian. Enjoy!**_

* * *

Simon found himself standing at the end of the chapel room. Next to him stood Sebastian, and next to Sebastian stood one of the twins. On the other side of the podium were the two men who had attacked him and Sebastian, along with the second twin. And standing behind the podium, was Father Martin.

When the Father had finally shown up, the twins relayed what had transpired. Immediately afterward, he ordered all the men in the room to restore the pews back to their proper positions and ordered him, Sebastian, the two attackers, and the twins to stand at the altar. The men now filled the pews and awaited further instruction from the priest. To Simon, it felt like he was on trial. In his entire life, he had only been on trial once, and that was one too many times in his opinion. It was the trial that sealed his fate and sent him to Mount Massive. Right now, Simon was nervously wringing his hands together and casting brief glances around the room. When he heard the priest's voice sound from next to him, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

"My disciples tell me of foul play going on in my absence. This behavior is undesirable and deeply displeases me and our Lord," Father Martin spoke diligently, his eyes traveling around the room. Several of the men in the pews averted their eyes in shame. "Who is to blame for this disturbance?"

Like before with the brothers, no one responded directly. Only murmurs and whispers could be heard throughout the room. Simon glanced over to the priest, who was frowning deeply. Suddenly, Father Martin raised a fist and brought it down, striking the podium hard and causing Simon and several others to flinch.

"Which one of these men started the fighting?" Father Martin demanded harshly.

"H-He did, Father. The one with the gimpy hand!" said a man, motioning at Simon. Simon bit his tongue and swallowed hard. He looked over to the priest, whose eyes were now watching him intently. His expression was unreadable, but definitely not benevolent.

"Is what he says true, child? Was it you who started the fight?" asked Martin. Simon opened his mouth to respond when he was cut off by another one of the inmates.

"Yeah, yeah! I saw everything. He—"

"Silence. The Father was not speaking to you," said the twin next to Sebastian. The man in the pews bowed his head and murmured an apology.

Simon looked from the man to Father Martin. Taking a shaky breath, he said, "I didn't start the fight. The man over there did."

Martin turned to his left and appraised the shirtless man. "Is this true, brother Jason?" he asked.

"Father, please forgive me," said the other man. "I started it, but with good reason. That man is a danger to our group and I couldn't let 'im get away! Do you not recognize him, Father? I do! He's been workin' for the doctor this whole time! He's a rotten traitor and I brought it upon myself to get rid of 'im." The man looked past the Father and stared hatefully at Simon. Throughout the man's tirade, Simon grew even more uncomfortable. All eyes in the room were on him. To his right, he could practically feel Sebastian glaring at him. When the man ended his accusation, the room erupted in shouts and finger-pointing, all aimed at Simon. Just when he felt he was about to get rushed by the angry mob, Father Martin came to his rescue.

"Enough! I have heard enough out of you all!" he shouted, pounding his fist repeatedly on the podium. The men quieted but some still put in their two cents on the issue. Father Martin raised his hands palms out and said, "Silence your tongues. Children, I understand your outrage. Please, allow me to explain his presence in our church." The chaotic room grew silent as everyone waited to hear what the priest would say next. Simon just hoped that whatever the priest's explanation would be would not end up getting him killed.

"Before further accusations are made, I am already aware of this man's past actions with the doctor. For those of you who have had the privilege of knowing me all these years, you should realize that I do not act without good reason," Martin chided. Several of the men in the pews nodded their heads in silent agreement, and the Father continued. "This man," Martin motioned to Simon, "is no longer working for that sinful tyrant. He seeks repentance for his past sins, and I believe I have the means to revoke them."

Simon's eyes widened. Revoking his sins? What on earth was this man going to make him go through? Many gruesome scenarios ran through Simon's panicked mind.

"Children, I believe that his presence here is a great blessing from our Lord. Can't you see? He carries knowledge with him that we do not possess. He knows where the doctor holds our brethren. Surely you have all heard the tales of what this madman does to his prey?" questioned the priest. The men in the pews gave nervous glances and nods in response. "He keeps them chained so he can torture them with his so-called science. He is a direct threat to our religion and to our Lord. But there is a way to beat him, and that way is by the ark."

Several 'oohs' and 'ahs' sounded from the congregation.

"Yes . . . yes, I do believe that with the help of our new guest, we can free our fallen brothers! This man," Martin held out his hand to Simon, "shall act as my Noah, and shall save our brethren from the flood! He shall ferry them to us, and our sect will grow stronger, as will our faith!" By this point in the priest's speech, several of the men were standing and cheering. Simon remained still, his mind racing, trying to process exactly what the Father was saying. He was to act as a sort of Noah, and bring Trager's patients back to the chapel? No. No, no no no . . . He would not do that! He refused! There was no way in—

"What if he refuses to follow your will, Father?" came the wispy voice of one of the twins.

"Yes. What if he runs away?" said the other.

"Ah, do not fret, for I have a plan for that," replied the priest. He then directed his attention to the whole group. "My disciples bring up an important point. What shall happen if our Noah does not fulfill his duties?" Father Martin let the question linger in the air for several seconds.

"We . . . kill 'im?" spoke a man from the pews. The other men grunted and nodded at his proposal. Simon blanched.

"No, no! Good heavens, children! We will not let this unholy place corrupt us! I have a much fairer solution—we shall let our Lord decide." At this, every man in the group, including the two men next to the second twin, let out a gasp. Simon noticed that even both of the twins had a look of awe on their brute features. "Yes, our gracious and fearsome Lord, The Walrider, has spoken to me! He is satisfied with our worship and praise, but wishes for our religion to grow. I have conversed with Him about my plan to free our brothers. He and I both agreed that this holy mission is of utmost importance. That is why if our shepherd fails . . ." the Father turned his head to Simon's trembling form, "he shall be the sole bearer of our Lord's wrath!" All of the men stood and cheered, and some clapped their hands and prayed vehemently.

Simon couldn't help but shrink back against the priest's hard gaze. He took another step backwards, only to be stopped by a large hand painfully gripping his shoulder. His head jerked to the side and realized that he was being held by a grinning twin. Immediately he tried to escape the man's hold, but only succeeded in causing the iron grip to tighten further.

"P-Please! You can't just send me back there! You don't know what he'd do to me if he found me! This is insane!" Simon found himself crying out desperately. The Father only looked at him with a scowl.

"Are you denying this most gracious opportunity to rid yourself of your sins, child?" he asked flatly. Simon picked up the underlying menace in the priest's words and realized that whatever he said next would most likely determine whether he'd live or die. In order to get out of this alive, he had no choice but to play the priest's game.

"Of c-course not . . . _Father_. I would never deny such a . . . generous and fair opportunity." Simon inwardly winced at his words. "What I had meant w-was," he took a shaky breath as the Father's eyes narrowed in suspicion, "that I'm not in the best position—physically, I mean—to efficiently carry out your task."

One look at Father Martin told him that no matter what, he was going to be forced into doing the zealot's bidding. His shoulders slumped in defeat, before he felt the twin's grip on his shoulder tighten.

"Father," spoke the twin. "What is to become of the other ne'er-do-wells? Surely, they should be punished accordingly, yes?" Simon could hear the eagerness in his voice, as if he had spent the whole assembly just waiting to hear about the punishments. Somehow, Simon did not doubt that was the case.

"Brother Vincent, always so quick to judgment," the priest said condescendingly as he shook his finger. "But, I suppose in this instance, I will hear you out. What do you suggest we do? I shall trust yours and your brother's instincts." Out of Simon's peripheral, he could make out the twin's arm motioning to his brother. Upon seeing the gesture, the brother calmly walked over, gripping the two men by their arms.

"Yes, brother?" he asked.

"Our Father has given us permission to decide punishments. What do you think is fitting for these hooligans?" The two men were visibly shaken by the brother's words, and even more so by their captor's.

"I vote we kill them," his brother said simply.

"I second that motion. Father, may we?" asked the other brother.

"No, you mustn't!" protested the Father. "Punish them for their wrongdoings, but do not execute them." Father Martin looked between the two men in the brother's grasp, and then to Sebastian. "I will allow for some roughness," he said finally. "But make sure they remain alive. Remember that only our Lord chooses who lives and who perishes," the priest said solemnly. The brothers, while looking disappointed, nodded their heads.

"Please, Father! We beg your forgiveness! I swear, I didn't know 'bout your plan, I didn't!" cried the man who had attacked Simon. The man's friend had his hands clasped together and his head bowed as he muttered something incoherent. If Simon was being honest with himself, he would say that he did not feel any sort of empathy for the two men. Maybe the cruelty of the asylum was finally rubbing off on him.

"Your punishment has been decided," jeered the brother holding Simon.

"It will be slow. And deliberate," hissed the other into the distraught men's ears, both of which cowered away from him.

"And what of the other one, Father? Will he receive our punishment?"

Simon suddenly recalled that Sebastian had been involved in the fight, meaning that he too would be subject to whatever horrible punishment the two brothers were going to dish out. "Father Martin, I know what you can do with this man. He—" Simon started before he was cut off by the jerk of his shoulder.

"Quiet your tongue," groaned the brother that was holding him. Simon winced as the man's fingers dug deeper into his sore shoulder. "I believe the Father gave _us_ permission to decide on the proper punishment."

Simon looked pleadingly at Father Martin, silently hoping that the man would hear him out. As luck would have it, he did.

"Wait. Let us hear what he has to say," said the priest, much to the dismay of the brothers. "Go on, child, I am listening."

Simon nodded and continued. "As I was saying . . . Sebastian did not start the fight. In fact, he was trying to prevent it, but got pulled into it. So instead of punishing him, like those two, I think it would be most helpful to your cause if he were to, uh . . . accompany me on my quest," Simon finished quickly. He hoped that he had been convincing enough to get Sebastian off the hook.

"He's lying," said one twin.

"He just wants help to escape," said the other.

Father Martin's eyes looked from Simon, to the twins, and then to Sebastian, contemplating the best course of action. Simon was not sure what the priest's final ruling would be, but he had one more point to make that might persuade him to let Sebastian go with him.

"Father, you know how injured I am. I can hardly stand up straight from the pain. And then to trek all the way across the asylum to rescue your followers? It would be near impossible, and I wouldn't want to invoke the wrath of the . . . _Walrider_. I'm sure if I had some help, the job could get done, and you could avoid displeasing yo—_our_—Lord."

A silence followed. Simon never broke eye contact with the priest. He could see the gears turning inside the old man's mind, and he knew that he had gotten through to him. But still, the tension built as the silence lingered, until finally . . .

"Very well," said the Father, a bit hesitantly. "This man may accompany you on your righteous journey. However, this means I expect the job to get done faster, and with more reward," he said sternly. Simon only nodded. The Father then turned to Sebastian, who had remained completely silent throughout the whole ordeal. Simon hoped that it was not a bad sign.

"Do you accept this course of action, my son?" asked the priest. Sebastian glanced to Simon, a look of neutrality on his face. After a quick second, he gave the Father a nod.

"Excellent! Our Lord will be most pleased at these events. May your journey be fruitful, my children. It is a great honor doing the Lord's work," Father Martin said excitedly. With a gentle smile that seemed to cause Simon more distress than comfort, he turned to the two men still being held by the bald twin. "You and your brother may deal out their punishment. Remember: alive. Do not displease me," warned the Father.

"Of course not, Father."

"We would never do such a thing. Right brother?"

"Right."

Simon felt the hold on his shoulder vanish, and the twin with hair walked past him and retrieved one of the men in his brother's grasp. The shirtless man was sputtering and pulling against his grip. "No! I'm sorry! I'm—I had no choice! Oh God, please!" he sobbed as he was being dragged towards the exit. Father Martin watched dispassionately, and the men in the pews looked on in shock and amusement as the brother's and their victims made their way down the aisle.

"Come," commanded the Father to Simon and Sebastian. "I have much to discuss with you both about this endeavor." Father Martin then stepped away from the podium and strode over to a door at the back wall. Simon let out a breath he had been holding in. He was both relieved and a bit anxious. Just as he was about to move to follow the priest, Sebastian brushed past him, jarring his sore shoulder. He didn't even look back or apologize, and instead stepped through the door Father Martin had just entered.

Regaining his bearings, Simon slowly walked to the door, and entered.

* * *

"Calm down, buddy, I know you're excited," chided the doctor. The man being spoken to was, in fact, very excited. He was screaming and thrashing against the restraints around his wrists and ankles as the wheelchair was being guided down the hallway. "Noisy little fucker, aren't you?" said Trager through gritted teeth. He mentally noted that the first thing he would work on was somehow silencing the patient's obnoxious crying. Honestly, the man was being a tad bit melodramatic about this.

The doctor and his patient finally reached their destination—a small, white-tiled room with a sink and three urinals attached to the far wall. Trager wheeled the whimpering man to the middle of the room and began the pre-operation ritual of washing his hands. Once he was finished, he turned back to the patient and offered him what he thought was a comforting smile. Of course, the man in the wheelchair wouldn't have been able to see it, for the doctor was wearing a surgical mask; but that did not matter. In Trager's frame of mind this was all just a game of pretend, taken to the extreme. He went through the motions of what he considered that of a doctor, and whoever he deemed worthy would act as his patient. Unfortunately, his playmates were always reluctant to take part in his game and he had to work around it, i.e. physical restraints and, often times, the use of brutal force. It was the patients' fault that he had to resort to such hostilities, but he truthfully couldn't say that he didn't _like _it. It was rewarding, having so much power over his patients. Call him a sadist, but he took great pleasure in others' discomfort and weaknesses.

"How are you doing today, Mr. Thompson?" he asked the squirming man in the wheelchair. Another thing he liked to do was to give names to his patients; it added to the aestheticism of being a doctor. He watched on as the man continued to shriek and struggle against the restraints. "Mmm, that bad, huh? Well I assure you, you've come to the right place. I have a sneaky suspicion that you might be suffering from tonsillitis," he said drolly as the patient let out another choked sob. "Now now, it's just a theory," continued Trager, holding out his arms in a calming gesture. "It's nothing a little check-up can't solve . . ."

The patient's eyes widened and he began shaking his head side to side rapidly as he cried out. Trager rolled his eyes and walked over to the metal cart. As the man continued his tirade, the doctor studied the tools before him, deciding on which one would be best suited for removing tonsils. He pinched the handle of a rusty scalpel between his grotesque fingers and watched as the overhead light gleamed off of its metal surface. This would do nicely. With a small spring in his step that only the promise of operating could create, he walked over so that he was standing in front of the patient.

"Now, Mr. Thompson, I understand that you may have . . . hesitations about this. I assure you, it's quite normal." The man still continued to whimper as Trager talked. "I'm going to explain to you what this check-up entails. First, I'm just going to have a looksy into your gullet and poke a prod a bit. If my suspicions of tonsillitis are confirmed, then I will have to begin the procedure. Do you understand what is being told to you, Mr. Thompson?" asked Trager. The man, as expected, began to cry even more. Trager sighed and approached the distraught man. "Okay, let's get started shall we?" he said as reached towards the man's mouth with the pointed end of the scalpel. The man's head jerked back and to the side, barring entrance.

The doctor narrowed his eyes and hissed in irritation. "Come on now, don't be fussy. This is a necessary precaution. Wouldn't want to have to operate without reason, would we?" he scolded. His patient was going to be difficult, and Trager thought back on his decision of not knocking the man out. Immediately he dismissed the idea, for it was not nearly as fun with an unconscious participant. And without the added hands of his assistant—no! He didn't need that good-for-nothing twat! He could do this on his own!

Trager jerked back angrily from the struggling man and turned to the sink, where he retrieved a wet rag. Wrapping the rag around his left hand and forming a fist, he returned to the patient. He set the scalpel down in the man's lap. "If you won't submit to the checkup, then I'm going to have to keep your yapper open by force," Trager snarled as he gripped the man's jaw and forced him to face forward. With his right hand, he forced the patient's mouth open and roughly slipped his thumb in between the other man's teeth. Now this way, the man had no way to close his mouth, and there was just enough space that Trager could slip the scalpel in.

"See what you made me do? This could have been easy," said the doctor he simultaneously fought to keep the man's head still and the scalpel inside the man's mouth. Trager leaned in closer so that he could view the back of the man's throat. Almost immediately, he saw the tonsils, along with the uvula. "Hmm. Yep, just as I thought," he said as he leaned back to look into the wild eyes of his patient. "It's gotta go," he said cheerfully. More screams ripped from the man's throat as Trager resumed his position and stuck the scalpel further into the man's mouth. The tip of the scalpel was now scratching against the side of the man's throat.

"Before we continue," said the doctor, his eyes still trained on the organ. "This will not be pleasant for you. But I'm sure, with time, you'll come to thank me. All right, let's begin." And with that, Trager pushed the scalpel's tip into the tonsil, eliciting a scream from his patient. Trager couldn't help but smile as he continued to cut jagged lines into the soft tissue. The man beneath him squirmed and let out choked gasps as the scalpel cut deeper and deeper. His teeth sunk into the cloth around Trager's thumb, causing the doctor to grimace.

"Hang in there, buddy. We're almost done," Trager said over the whales of his patient. Only a thread was keeping the tonsil attached, and the doctor removed the scalpel. He placed the scalpel back down on the patient's lap and reached his hand back in and gripped the loose tissue. The patient was now choking and coughing up blood, his throat refusing to let him scream any more. With a quick tug, the thread gave way and Trager's hand emerged with the bloodied tonsil. He rose to a standing position in front of the crying man and surveyed his prize.

"You see? That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked. His patient's head lulled to the side, blood dribbling down his chin. His breaths were coming out ragged and his eyes were darting all around the room. Trager dropped the squishy pink tissue onto the cart and retrieved the scalpel from the man's lap. "Now, time for the second one," said Trager as he approached the wheelchair.

Upon hearing that the torture was not yet over, the man's struggling began anew, nearly causing the whole chair to tip over. Trager steadied it with his knee as he bent over the whimpering man, readying the scalpel. Once again, he shoved his clothed thumb in between the man's teeth to keep his mouth from closing fully. As he brought the scalpel closer to the man's mouth, the man thrust his body upward unexpectedly and knocked the instrument from Trager's hand and sent it clattering to the floor. The doctor let out a hiss of disdain.

"God damn it! Simon! Scalpel! Now!" he demanded. As soon as the words left his mouth, Trager realized that no one was there to retrieve the scalpel for him. In that moment, a dark cloud seemed to come over the insane doctor. From behind his spectacles, his eyes were locked on the man breathing heavily beneath him. Then, slowly, he removed his hand from the man's mouth and stood. He looked to the floor and bent down to pick up the small scalpel. After studying it for several seconds, he looked back to his patient and sighed.

"That . . . was extremely rude of you," he said in a tense, quiet voice. The room was silent, save for the audible breathing of the patient. The doctor's eyes were still trained on him, but from what was visible of his face, he appeared rather neutral. He was neither manically gleeful nor maliciously predatory; he was simply _just there_. And that was truly frightening.

Finally, after a minute or two, Trager slowly lifted the scalpel. "Mr. Thompson, I believe a change in tactics is in order. I realize now that I foolishly miscalculated what was causing your ailment. Rest assured, I am taking full responsibility for my actions . . . But really, could you blame me? This place . . . I think it's finally starting to rub off on me." Trager paused, awaiting a reply that would never come. "Tell you what. I'll fix the problem for free."

He leaned over the patient and once again forced his mouth open. This time, the man put up more of a fight, but Trager remained undaunted. "Okay buddy. Let's see about that tongue of yours . . ." Clutching the small scalpel between his fingers, he went to work. The man's struggling and shrieks of pain and terror went unnoticed by the mad doctor as he cut. A grim smirk crossed his face as the scalpel crudely cut away at the tough muscle of the man's tongue, for in Trager's mind, he was not operating on a patient. No—in his mind, all he could see, screaming and struggling beneath him, was Simon.

* * *

**My deepest apologies. There were several reasons why this chapter took so long to be posted. First, I had a difficult time writing it. Not really sure **_**why**_**, but I did. As I was writing it, I kept getting ideas for future chapters and kind of shoved this one to the side. And when I finally finished it, the internet decides to be a total butt and not work. But hey! It's here now, **_**and**_ **I made it super long. That's gotta count for something, right? **

** Also, thank you guys for the reviews, most notably a review from RandomReader. I'm thrilled that you have taken a bit of a liking to Simon despite your dislike of OCs. Although I am sorry I didn't quite follow through on the 'update soon' part, heh heh . . . :/ But in other news, I've finally made a plot map for this story and have estimated that this will consist of 12 story chapters, and then a 13th chapter will be posted as kind of a bonus. Just giving you guys an idea of how long this story will be. Thanks for reading!**


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